GATHERED  WAIFS 


ANN  W.  CURTIS. 


KENNEBUNK,    MAINE, 
1892. 


BOSTON,   MASS. 

J.   E.   FARWELL  &  CO.,   Printers,  45  Pearl  St. 
l8Q2. 


To  my  dear  friends  living  and  to  the  memory  of 
my  beloved  dead,  I  dedicate  this  volume. 

A.    W.    C. 


The  author  of  this  volume  selected  from  her 
writings  the  "  GATHERED  WAIFS,"  and  directed  that 
they  be  published,  not  for  general  circulation,  but 
especially  that  they  be  presented  in  her  name  to  her 
more  immediate  and  long  cherished  friends  and  asso 
ciates,  as  a  memorial  of  her  sincere  friendship,  which 
was  constant  through  the  lights  and  shadows  of  life's 
scenes  and  continued  true  and  unabated  to  the  end. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


THE  NEW  MINISTER        .....  5 

THE  OLD  STORY          .....  10 

UNIFORMITY     .         .         .         .         .         .  13 

IT  COULD  NOT  BE      .         .         .         .         .  16 

BIBLE  BROOKS  AND  RIVERS, — 

THE  RIVER  JORDAN         .....  20 

THE  BROOK  CHERITH          ....  24 

THE  BROOK  BESOR 28 

THE  BROOK  CEDRON  .         .         .         .         .  31 

THE  RIVERS  OF  BABYLON       ....  34 

THE  WATERS  OF  THE  WILDERNESS  .         .  37 

IMMORTELLES   .......  41 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY      .         .         .         .         .  45 

HENRY  OF  NAVARRE       .         .         .         .  51 

RICHARD  CROMWELL  .....  56 

MICHAEL  FARADAY           .....  60 

EDELWEISS  .......  66 

HENRY  MARTYN      ......  70 

THE  ELDER'S  HOME    ......  76 

A  REMINISCENCE     ......  80 

REV.  OLIVER  BARRON         ....  85 

THE  PHANTOM  WITNESS          ....  89 

A  STORY  FROM  REAL  LIFE         .         .         .  •  96 
THE  REOJJITED        .         .         .         .         .         .118 

AUNT  RACHEL     .         .         .         .         .  133 

THE  FIRST  AND  LAST  GIFT   ....  138 

"I  SHALL  BE" 148 


THE    NEW    MINISTER. 


A  PELLES  boasted  that  he  painted  for  eternity. 
It  was  a  bold  figure  of  speech  that  far  out 
stripped  the  sobriety  of  truth,  for  no  mortal  eye  for 
long  centuries  has  seen  a  line  of  his  pencil.  But  that 
same  empty  boast,  with  slight  modification,  is  but  the 
plain,  literal  truth  concerning  the  minister's  work." 

The  old  minister  had  grown  feeble  and  was  not 
equal  to  the  labors  which  his  extensive  parish  required. 

He  was  a  strange  old  man,  but  honored  and  be 
loved  ;  and  unusual  indeed  must  have  been  the  sway 
which  the  simple  force  of  mind  and  heart  exercised, 
for  he  owned  no  influence  won  through  external 
means. 

As  he  went  forth  on  the  week  day,  clad  in  a  cam- 
blet  morning-gown,  which  however  served  him  the 
day  through,  and  girded  about  the  waist  with  coarse 
twine  or  a  piece  of  split  rope,  with  wide  brimmed  felt 
hat  and  rough  stick,  he  walked  abroad  the  honored 
and  beloved  pastor.  For  however  much  we  may 
reason  upon  it,  how  conscious  so  ever  we  may  be,  that 
it  is  the  thinking,  cultivated,  polished  mind ;  the  feel 
ing,  noble,  generous  heart  alone  that  makes  the  true 
man  or  the  true  woman ;  yet  so  subject  are  we  to  our 
external  senses ;  so  much  more  readily  does  the  eye 


0  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

recognize  than  the  mind  perceive  or  the  heart  appre 
ciate,  that  it  rarely  happens  that  external  appearances 
can  be  so  disregarded  without  reputation  in  a  measure 
suffering  from  it. 

But  they  were  proud  of  their  old  minister ;  proud 
that  a  rural  district  like  theirs  might  boast  of  one  who 
was  eagerly  welcomed  to  the  pulpits  of  the  city. 
Pleased  were  they  when  they  had  heard  that  the  most 
eminent  minister  of  Boston  had  said  of  him,  "When 
I  walk  up  the  pulpit  stairs  with  him,  I  feel  ashamed 
of  him ;  but  when  we  come  down,  I  always  feel 
ashamed  of  myself."  If  there  was  anything  of  which 
the  old  man  was  proud,  it  was  that  he  owed  none  of 
the  respect  which  he  possessed  to  anything  external,  but 
to  weight  of  character  alone. 

Instead  of  being  offended,  he  was  much  pleased, 
when  on  one  occasion,  while  attending  the  "  general 
court"  of  Massachusetts,  being  invited  to  dine  with 
the  governor,  on  presenting  himself  at  the  door,  he 
was  led  by  the  servant  into  the  kitchen  to  await  His 
Excellency's  leisure,  where,  unnoticed,  he  frequently 
heard  his  own  name  mentioned  among  the  eminent 
men  who  were  to  be  guests  that  day ;  and  greatly  he 
enjoyed  the  confused  looks  of  the  servant  girls  when 
they  discovered  who  it  was  they  had  so  unceremo 
niously  entertained. 

Keen  was  his  reply  to  a  foppish  young  preacher 
whose  powdered  wig  seemed  his  special  care,  when 
asked,  "  Why  do  you  not  dress  better?  People  mis 
take  you  for  an  old  plow-jogger!"  "I  dress  com 
fortably,"  said  the  old  man  quietly  —  "  It  suits  me  — 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  7 

But  I  know  there  are  those  who  bestow  '  abundant 
honor  on  that  part  which  lacketh.'  " 

We  doubt  if  his  people  would  so  readily  have  borne 
with  his  eccentricities  and  uncouthness  had  he  not  been 
so  honored  and  sought  for  abroad.  So  much  are  we 
subject  to  the  opinions  of  others,  especially  of  the 
rich  and  influential,  and  so  much  do  we  forget  to 
judge  from  our  own  powers  of  reasoning  and  con 
sciousness  of  truth. 

Before  the  colleague  who  had  been  called  to  assist 
him  in  his  pastoral  labors  had  arrived,  the  old  man 
died,  having  ministered  to  his  people  for  more  than 
fifty  years. 

From  far  and  near  they  flocked  to  his  funeral ;  and 
when  the  text  was  pronounced,  "  My  father,  my 
father,  the  chariot  of  Israel,  and  the  horsemen  there 
of!  "  all  felt  that  in  the  whole  Bible  no  more  appro 
priate  words  could  have  been  found  than  in  that  wail 
of  sorrow  and  shout  of  triumph. 

To  the  younger  members  of  the  congregation  a  new 
minister  fresh  from  the  honors  of  his  college  was  a 
theme  of  delight. 

The  Sabbath  morning  on  which  he  was  to  appear 
among  them  was  hailed  with  intense  interest,  and 
they  were  early  in  their  pews  that  they  might  have  a 
full  view  of  the  young  man  as  he  walked  up  the  long 
aisle. 

A  sense  of  disappointment  came  over  them  as  he 
appeared  ;  so  plainly  clad,  so  simple  and  unpretending 
in  his  appearance,  it  seemed  as  though  it  might  have 
been  the  spirit  of  their  old  minister  come  back  in 
another  form. 


S  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

He  rose  in  the  pulpit;  the  hymn  was  read  in  a 
deep,  rich  voice  ;  the  prayer  offered  with  solemnity  and 
fervor;  and  the  sermon,  founded  on  the  words,  "I 
ask  therefore  for  what  intent  ye  have  sent  for  me  ?  " 
full  of  deep  and  serious  thought.  And  as  he  spoke 
of  his  own  intent  in  coming,  of  his  desire  of  know 
ing  nothing  among  them  but  "  Jesus  Christ  and  Him 
crucified,"  they  felt  that  he  was  not  the  gay  young 
clergyman  they  had  hoped  to  meet,  but  verily  a  min 
ister  of  the  everlasting  gospel. 

More  than  forty  years  had  passed  since  that  young 
clergyman  had  appeared  among  that  people,  when 
one,  who  in  her  girlhood  had  been  of  his  congrega 
tion,  spoke  to  us  of  him  and  of  his  ministry,  and 
especially  of  the  afternoon  of  that  first  Sabbath ;  and 
it  was  with  a  freshness  of  thought,  a  vividness  of  ex 
pression  and  a  warmth  of  feeling,  which  it  is  possible 
for  the  memory  of  few  to  excite  who  have  slept  for 
forty  years  beneath  the  sod. 

It  was  with  a  less  eager  step  than  in  the  morning, 
said  she,  that  I  approached  the  old  meeting-house ; 
but  it  was  at  that  time  that  the  "  arrows  of  the 
Almighty  "  were  appointed  to  pierce  me.  "  For  what 
is  a  man  profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world, 
and  lose  his  own  soul?  or  what  shall  a  man  give  in 
exchange  for  his  soul  ?  "  were  the  first  words  he  uttered 
as  he  rose.  Often  and  often  had  I  heard  those  words 
before ;  then  why  did  they  send  such  a  thrill  through 
heart  and  brain,  as  though  some  new  and  fearful  truth 
had  been  revealed  ? 

I  have   ever  thought  that   that  sermon  must  have 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  9 

been  written  with  a  soul  bowed  in  prayer  —  such 
prayer  as  Jacob's  was  when  he  wrestled  with  the 
angel,  or  Elijah's  when  he  called  the  fire  from  heaven 
—  and  that  it  was  in  answer  to  some  svich  fervent 
prayer,  that  those  words  arrested  my  thoughts,  and  I 
listened,  eagerly  as  prisoner  at  the  bar,  to  every  sen 
tence  that  fell  from  his  lips  as  he  spoke  of  the  Plan 
of  Salvation  through  a  Redeemer.  And  more  than 
forty  years  have  passed  since  that  Sabbath  afternoon, 
and  from  that  time  life  has  had  a  new  aim,  a  new 
object,  a  new  purpose ;  from  that  hour  a  softened 
halo  was  imparted  to  it ;  I  saw  the  beauty  6f  holi 
ness,  the  loveliness  of  the  gospel,  and  the  blessedness 
of  the  Bible  as  the  chart  to  guide  to  heaven  and  to  fill 
the  mind  with  those  dispositions  and  affections  which 
may  make  earth  a  fitting  prelude  to  it. 

It  was,  'she  added,  after  a  blessed  ministry  of  two 
years  that  he  was  taken  from  us.  He  was  but  twenty- 
eight  when  he  died,  and  though  I  am  so  old  now  that 
men  of  that  age  seem  to  me  as  striplings,  still  I  think 
of  him  as  my  father  in  Israel. 

And  this  influence,  thought  we  as  we  listened,  has 
been,  is,  and  will  be  extending  to  the  end  of  time ; 
and  that  minister  may  yet  look  upon  souls  given  as 
seals  to  others  which  shall  be  counted  unto  him  as 
though  set  in  his  own  crown  of  rejoicing. 

Verily,  we  said,  do  such  men  paint  for  Eternity, 
but  they  paint  imperishable  truths  upon  an  imper 
ishable  substance. 


THE   OLD    STORY. 


"  And  when,  in  scenes  of  glory, 

I  sing  the  new,  new  song, 
'Twill  be— the  old,  old  story 
That  I  have  loved  so  long." 

TT  was  a  one-storied  farm-house — old  and  unpainted 
J-  — black  house,  we  called  it  in  the  parlance  of  child 
hood.  There  were  neither  carpets  or  nice  furniture 
in  that  low-roofed  dwelling ;  but  it  was  the  home  of 
culture  and  refinement — of  rare  religious  and  scholarly 
attainments.  Child  as  we  were,  the  memory,  the  pict 
ure,  of  the  beautiful  brother  and  sister  who  dwelt 
there,  has  hung,  almost  unfaded,  on  the  old  walls  of 
the  past. 

Again,  the  sister  takes  me  in  her  arms  and  tells  me 
of  the  Saviour  who  loves  little  children ;  or,  I  stand 
beside  her  in  front  of  the  great  kitchen  fire,  where 
flitting  flames  make  moving  shadows  on  the  wall ; 
while  the  fair,  white  fingers  pick  the  chaff  from  the 
flax  seed,  which  is  to  be  steeped  for  medicine,  and, 
dreamily,  as  if  partly  to  herself  and  partly  to  me,  she 
asks:  "What  means  'A  bruised  reed  shall  He  not 
break,  and  smoking  flax  shall  He  not  quench  '  ?  " 

A  little  while  passed,  and  her  earthly  life  was 
ended ;  and  the  brother  stood  beside  the  fair  clay,  not 
mourning,  but  erect,  almost  glad,  because  he  knew 


THE    OLD    STORY.  II 

she  had  entered  the  Celestial  City.  And  now,  among 
old  things  put  away,  I  find  a  record  of  that  brother's 
last  days.  More  than  forty  years  have  passed  since 
his  mortal  remains  were  committed  to  earth,  and  more 
than  forty  years  since  a  hand  which  I  know  not  tran 
scribed  his  dying  words  from  dying  lips.  It  is  an  old 
story,  and  nearly  all  who  knew,  or  cared  for,  or  loved 
him,  have  long  been  lying  in  their  low  graves.  It  is- 
a  story  as  old  as  Ararat,  where  the  ark  rested ;  old  a& 
Sinai,  where  God  gave  His  testimony  to  Moses;  old 
as  Tabor,  where  Christ  was  transfigured  ;  as  Calvaryr 
where  He  was  crucified  ;  and  I  may  not  throw  to  the 
flames,  for  no  other  eyes  than  mine  to  see,  another 
evidence  of  that  same  old  faith  which  "  subdued  king 
doms,  wrought  righteousness,  obtained  promises, 
stopped  the  mouths  of  lions,  quenched  the  violence  of 
fire,  escaped  the  edge  of  the  sword,  out  of  weakness 
were  made  strong,  waxed  valiant  in  fight,  turned  to 
flight  the  armies  of  the  aliens." 

He  died  while  in  his  Sophomore  year  in  Brown 
University.  One  day  he  asked,  "  How  much  longer 
does  this  term  continue?"  He  was  told,  "Four 
weeks."  "  Then  it  closes  with  the  month  of  March," 
he  said,  "  I  shall  be  in  Heaven  before  it  closes." 

Dr.  Wayland  called,  and,  being  about  to  engage  in 
prayer,  asked  "  if  there  was  anything  that  he  wished 
him  to  pray  for  in  particular?"  "Pray,"  he  an 
swered,  "  that  I  may  be  perfectly  patient  and  endure  all 
my  sufferings  with  entire  resignation,  and  that  I  may 
be  so  prepared  as  that  if  I  should  die  now  it  may  be 
my  gain,  and  if  I  live  it  may  be  for  Christ."  "  That 
is  enough,  my  son,"  said  Dr.  \Vayland. 


12  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

On  a  Sabbath  evening,  being  asked  how  he  had 
enjoyed  the  day,  he  replied,  "I  have  had  a  glorious 
time."  When  asked  if  he  was  ready  to  die,  he  an 
swered,  "  I  know  not  why  I  may  not,  if  it  is  the  will 
of  God,  as  well  die  now  as  hereafter.  Heaven  is  a 
more  pleasant  place  than  earth.  Still,  I  have  some 
times  a  desire  if  it  consists  with  God's  will,  to  be  re 
stored  to  health,  that  I  may  go  forth  among  the  people 
and  testify  to  His  goodness  and  speak  of  His  great 
mercy.  Nevertheless,  not  my  will,  but  Thine,  O  God, 
be  done."  "  My  only  refuge  is  in  Christ,"  he  said. 
"  O,  what  a  refuge — what  a  rock — what  a  Saviour  !" 
His  last  audible  expression  was,  "  God,  even  our  God 
can  save  us." 

"  He  died  within  the  walls  of  the  College;  and  in 
the  very  i-oom  where  he  had  been  wont  to  investigate 
the  principles  of  science  his  pure  spirit  passed  to  the 
awards  of  immortality.  Thus  passed  away,  in  the 
spring-tide  of  his  being,  a  distinguished  scholar  and  a 
most  amiable  man.  It  is,  however,  grateful  to  reflect 
that  his  life,  though  short,  had  answered  life's  great 
end ;  that  in  youth  and  in  health  he  had  remembered 
his  Creator,  and  that  in  sickness  and  in  death  he  looked 
forward,  with  humble  hope,  to  that  crown  of  life 
which  Christ  hath  promised  to  those  who  put  their 
trust  in  Him." 


UNIFORMITY. 


|4TF  the  unity  of  the  Church  is  ever  manifested  to 
the  world,  it  will  not  be  by  the  unanimous  sub 
scription  of  believers  to  a  formulated  creed,  but  by 
their  fraternal  intercourse  as  brethren  in  Crmst." 

Not  many  months  ago  there  was  a  convocation  of 
Divines  of  different  religious  denominations,  the  osten 
sible  object  of  which  was  to  attain  to  a  uniformity  of 
belief. 

"Who  can  visit,"  said  a  prominent  city  clergyman 
among  them,  "  a  village  of  one  thousand  inhabitants, 
with  its  three  churches,  and  not  confess  that  these 
divisions  are  unchristian?" 

To  us  the  thought  would  come  :  Among  these  peo 
ple  are  those  who  care  enough  for  their  religious 
creed ;  for  that  which  they  consider  the  doctrine  of 
the  Gospel  of  Christ ;  to  be  willing  to  exert  them 
selves,  to  make  some  sacrifice  to  maintain  it. 

When  Cardinal  Wiseman,  grudging  to  the  poor  lit 
tle  Sandemanian  church  the  great  name  of  Faraday, 
arrogantly  asked  him,  "if  in  his  deepest  conviction 
he  believed  all  the  Church  of  Christ,  holy,  catholic 
and  apostolic,"  was  shut  up  in  that  church,  Faraday 
replied:  "  Oh,  no;  but  I  do  believe  from  the  bottom 
of  my  soul  that  Christ  is  with  us."  And  in  that 
courteous,  noble  answer  was  revealed  a  strength  and 

13 


14  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

beauty  for  which  the   Christian  character  is  stronger 
and  more  beautiful  to-day. 

In  churches  of  every  name  we  recognize  men  and 
women  of  the  noblest  type,  and,  almost  invariably, 
they  are  those  who  hold  firmest  to  the  principles  of 
their  own  denomination  and  give  the  best  of  their 
talent,  their  influence  and  their  means  to  sustain  them. 

Want  of  strenuous  principle  on  the  part  of  members 
of  churches :  so-called  unsectarianism  ;  indifference, 
shilly-shallying,  usually  culminates  in  such  members 
ignoring  the  church  to  which  they  belong,  whenever 
their  lot  falls  in  a  place  where  that  church  is  not  the 
richest  and  most  fashionable.  Their  church  home  is 
determined  wholly  by  their  latitude  and  longitude. 

The  whole  thing  was  put  in  a  nutshell  by  a  woman 
whom  we  knew,  more  simple  and  honest,  but  with 
no  less  principle,  than  most  of  her  class,  who,  on 
entering  a  new  place  of  residence,  said:  "I  think  I 
shall  prefer  Blank  church,  the  steeple  is  the  tallest." 

Let  us  not  believe,  let  us  not  be  taught  that  it  mat 
ters  little  what  church  we  attend,  or  what  doctrines  we 
hear  inculcated.  Let  us  cling  closest  to  that  church 
which,  in  our  inmost  heart,  we  believe  to  be  nearest 
to  the  teachings  of  Jesus.  Let  us  love  it  best  as  our 
own  spiritual  home;  and  let  us  each  build,  as  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem  were  built,  over  against  our  own 
house. 

And  there  is  nothing  in  all  this  to  take  from  the 
love  and  interest  with  which  we  may  regard  those  of 
other  denominations,  any  more  than  a  man's  loving 
his  own  home  and  family  better  than  any  other,  pre- 


UNIFORMITY.  15 

vents  him  from  being  a  good  neighbor.  Neither  does 
it  prevent  us  wherein  we  are  agreed  from  walking 
"by  the  same  rule"  and  from  minding  "the  same 
thing." 

In  no  way  does  it  detract  from  that  beautiful,  all- 
embracing,  though  bewildered,  answer  of  the  dying 
soldier,  who,  when  asked,  "Of  what  persuasion  are 
you?"  replied,  "I  am  persuaded  that  neither  death, 
nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor  powers, 
nor  things  present,  nor  things  to  come,  nor  height, 
nor  depth,  nor  any  other  creature,  shall  be  able  to 
separate  me  from  the  love  of  God  which  is  in  Christ 
Jesus." 


IT    COULD    NOT    BE. 


"  But  He  who  being  gave, 
Sharing  with  me  thereby  His  infinite, 
Scorned  that  the  phantom  of  a  vain  delight 

Should  make  His  own  its  slave, 
So  from  my  forehead  took  joy's  blooming  crown, 
And  to  the  dust  threw  those  fair  idols  down." 

'"THE  words  of  the  Judge  and  Maud  Muller  have 
been  echoed  from  a  thousand  hearts,  and  a 
thousand  tongues  have  repeated  them  with  a  wail  of 
anguish  wilder  and  more  hopeless  than  Poe's  raven 
cry  of  "  Nevermore."  "  It  might  have  been" — it  is  a 
whole  volume — the  epitome  of  a  lifetime — the  despair 
ing  wail  of  an  agonized  heart. 

"  We  are  only  what  might  have  been,"  is  the 
mournful  expression  which  Charles  Lamb  gives  to  his 
"Dream-children."  Only  what  might  have  been; 
and  he  gazed  upon  a  grief-painted  picture,  and 
remembered  the  fair  hair  and  eyes  of  Alice  W n. 

Moments  in  life  stand  out  in  memory  which  we  now 
know  determined  our  earthly  destiny.  We  see  where 
the  road  diverged,  and  when,  it  seemed,  we  might 
have  taken  either  way.  Those  moments  appear  in  an 
almost  preternatural  light :  the  spot  where  we  stood  ; 
the  way  the  rain  came  as  it  splashed  against  the 
window,  and  the  size  of  the  drops  upon  the  glass ;  or 
16 


IT    COULD    NOT    BE.  1 7 

it  may  be,  where  the  sunbeams  fell,  and  the  motes 
that  danced  in  the  beams.  We  look  through  the 
intervening  years,  as  sometimes,  we  are  told,  down, 
down  through  clear  water,  a  sunken  ship  may  be  seen 
with  every  rope  and  spar  clearly  defined ;  or,  as  in 
some  Swiss  lake  a  lost  city,  sunk  ages  ago. 

I  cannot  conceive  why  I  carried  Charlotte  Gary  to 
ride  on  that  June  afternoon  when  I  was  on  my  way  to 
invite  Fanny  Lee.  Had  Fanny  gone  my  life  might 
have  been  joyous  as  it  has  been  otherwise.  My  self- 
love  would  bid  me  think  that  there  is  sadness  lying  in 
her  heart  and  hidden  in  her  eyes;  but  that,  and 
memory,  and  the  wailing  dirge  of  might  have  been, 
makes  me  an  unfit  judge  of  her  happiness.  Her 
husband  is  a  good  man  and  rich,  and  noble  in  look  and 
mien ;  and  sometimes  I  stand  before  the  mirror,  and 
while  I  cannot  help  acknowledging  in  my  heart  that 
his  is  a  better  face  than  mine,  my  pride  is  gratified 
to  believe  that  my  features  had  once  to  her  a  charm 
which  his  had  failed  to  awaken  ;  and  had  I  gone  in 
that  evening  when  I  passed  her  gate  — had  I  spoken  to 
her  then — she  would  now  have  been  my  wife.  Mine, 
mine — a  regret,  not  for  yesterday,  not  for  to-day,  but 
for  all  time.  Will  it  be  for  Eternity?  So  linked  is 
that  regret  with  every  thought,  that  sometimes  I  can 
scarcely  believe  in  my  soul's  immortality  without  the 
immortality  of  its  sorrow. 

But  do  we  not  believe  too  much  in  "It  might  have 
been"?  Is  it  not  truer,  better  to  say,  "It  could  not 
be" — God  did  not  will  it?  Yes.  Those  obstacles, 
those  impedimenta,  that  rising  in  the  throat,  the 


1 8  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

hysterica  passio,  which  prevented  us  from  speaking 
when  the  joy  of  life,  all  but  the  hopes  of  eternity,  hung 
upon  our  lips ;  the  want  of  the  one  word,  the  breath 
to  turn  the  balance  whereon  was  laid  all  that  made 
life  for  us — all  this  could  not  be  changed ;  nor  could 
we  have  turned  our  steps  in  another  path,  any  more 
than  with  the  uplifting  of  the  hand,  we  could  prevent 
the  fall  of  the  sparrow  which  "  He  noteth" 

Something  hindered  us  on  our  way,  and  the  steamer 
had  gone  ten  minutes  before  we  reached  the  wharf. 
The  steamer  is  lost,  and  all  on  board  perish.  Then 
we  believe  in  'special  providences.  We  think  of  our 
unaccountably  lingering  steps,  and  know,  and  believe 
of  a  truth,  that  "all  the  hairs  of  our  head  are  num 
bered."  **  It  might  have  been  "  rises  fearfully  before 
us.  "  It  could  not  be  "  wells  up  from  our  heart  in  a 
psalm  of  thanksgiving.  We  beheld  no  obstacle,  but 
the  angel  standing  in  the  way  with  his  "  sword  drawn 
in  his  hand,"  shut  up  our  path  as  effectually  as  he  did 
that  of  Baalim. 

We  have  read  of  the  artist  standing  on  a  plat 
form  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and  gazing  upon  a 
picture  on  its  walls  which  he  had  just  completed : 
gazing  admiringly  upon  his  work — the  embodiment 
of  his  genius— the  earnest  of  his  fame.  Moving  back 
ward  step  by  step,  with  every  thought  absorbed  in  the 
gaze ;  a  brush,  drawn  rapid  as  the  lightning's  flash 
across  the  picture,  destroyed  all  its  beauty.  He  sprang 
forward  with  a  cry  of  mingled  wrath  and  anguish  ;  but 
the  hand  of  him,  who  had  thus  destroyed  the  work, 
pointed  to  the  spot  where  he  had  stood  a  moment 


IT    COULD    NOT    BE.  19 

before.  It  was  at  the  very  edge  of  the  platform,  a 
fall  from  which  would  inevitably  have  destroyed  his 
life.  The  artist  was  answered,  and  he  knew  truly  that 
the  destruction  of  his  picture  had  saved  his  life. 

And  those  pictures,  dreams,  visions,  "might  have 
beens"  of  life,  were  perhaps  to  our  immortal  interests 
what  the  picture  of  the  artist  was  to  his  mortal  being. 

A  fortune  with  its  charms  of  taste  and  elegance 
was  almost  within  my  grasp,  but  it  eluded  my  touch  : 
had  I  but  lifted  into  the  carriage  my  boy,  who  was 
playing  in  the  yard  as  I  rode  out  of  it,  he  would  not 
have  wandered  to  the  pond,  where,  an  hour  after,  we 
found  his  little  body  floating  among  the  lilies;  and 
had  I  only  been  half  conscious  of  my  love  for  Fanny 
Lee  she  might  now  have  been  my  wife.  Absorbed  in 
my  wealth,  self-indulgent,  doting  on  my  boy,  or  loving 
Fanny  with  a  love  too  deep  and  wild  to  give  to  mortal 
woman,  I  might  have  forgotten  the  land  beyond  the 
stars,  "  a  soul  to  save,  a  God  to  glorify." 

The  doing,  or  the  not  doing,  on  which  has  so  unwit 
tingly  hung  our  mortal  destiny,  though  it  may  bring  a 
regret  for  all  time,  should  not  cause  the  soul  to  faint. 
If  there  is  in  it  no  sin  against  God,  let  not  "It  might 
have  been  "  sound  in  the  chambers  of  the  heart  like 
clods  upon  the  lowered  coffin.  And  even  where  sins 
are  remembered,  to  the  penitent  there  is  no  place  for 
despair.  The  words  of  Jesus  to  the  repentant  woman, 
"  Thy  sins  be  forgiven  thee,"  were  not  spoken  for  her 
alone,  but  were  a  legacy  to  us  all. 


THE    RIVER    JORDAN. 


'"PHE  River  Jordan,  regarded  in  its  actual,  and  espe- 
cially  in  its  symbolical  character,  is  a  stream  of  all 
absorbing  interest :  it  is  the  Mount  Zion  among  waters. 
Mountain  and  river  are  each  made  types  of  great  and 
mysterious  truths.  Jordan  is  the  name  we  give  that 
stream  whose  current  is  stronger,  deeper,  swifter  and 
wilder  than  all  torrents,  from  the  vortex  of  whose 
whirlpools  none  can  hold  back ;  and  where  there  can 
be  safety  in  no  other  bark  than  where  Jesus  Christ  is 
seen  seated  at  the  helm.  It  is  the  type  of  that  river 
where  the  "burdens  of  the  camel  must  all  be  lifted 
off"  and  left  upon  the  shore  ;  and  we  may  take  with 
us  nothing  but  our  "  hearts  unmantled  and  unmasked  :" 
it  is  the  land  viewed  from  the  tops  of  Shenir  and  Her- 
mon  :  it  is  the  passage  "  from  the  lions'  dens,  from  the 
mountains  of  the  leopards." 

The  river  Joi'dan  from  its  rise  in  the  mountains  of 
Lebanon — Lebanon  itself  a  type  of  Christ  and  his 
church,  and  whose  cedars  were  the  symbols  of  glory 
and  strength— till  it  loses  itself  in  the  waters  of  the 
Dead  Sea,  washes  shores  made  holy  by  the  footsteps 
of  our  Lord. 


THE    RIVER  JORDAN.  21 

It  was  from  the  heights  of  Nebo  that  Moses  gazed 
across  its  shining  waters  upon  the  land  that  lay 
stretched  between  it  and  the  "utmost  sea;"  and 
glorious  to  his  sight  were  the  mountains  and  the  trees  : 
beautiful  the  waving  palms,  and  the  glancing  waters 
of  the  Mediterranean.  That  longing  gaze  was  his  last, 
and  Joshua  became  the.  leader  of  the  people.  It  was 
for  him  first  that  the  waters  of  Jordan  were  divided ; 
divided,  not  where  it  is  first  formed  by  the  rivulets  of 
Lebanon,  but  where,  after  having  received  all  its 
tributaries,  till  it  was  about  to  enter  the  sea,  the  waters 
stood,  and  rose  heap  upon  heap,  and  were  to  them 
firm  as  walls  of  adamant,  till  that  mighty  host  had 
reached  the  western  shore. 

It  was  as  they  walked  on  Jordan's  banks  that  the 
"  sons  of  the  prophets  "  whispered  to  Elisha  low  and 
trembling,  "  Knowest  thou  that  the  Lord  will  take 
away  thy  master  from  thy  head  to-day  ? "  and  he, 
wishing  only  for  the  sympathy  of  silence,  shrinking 
from  the  thought  of  bringing  into  words  a  subject  so 
sacred,  only  answered,  "Yea,  I  know  it ;  hold  ye  your 
peace." 

And  again  was  the  stream  divided :  the  hermit  of 
Carmel  smote  its  waters  with  his  mantle,  and  a  dry 
path  appeared.  But  Jordan's  bosom  was  that  day  to 
reflect  a  scene  as  strange  as  the  parting  of  its  waters ; 
strange  those  crimson  lights,  bright  and  wild,  that 
danced  upon  its  surface ;  strange  far  up  in  air  a 
"chariot  of  fire  and  horses  of  fire;"  and  as  Elisha 
caught  the  floating  mantle  the  neighboring  hills  all 
echoed  that  startling  cry  of  triumph  and  of  anguish-: 


22  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

"My  father,  my  father,  the  chariot  of  Israel,  and  the 
horsemen  thereof." 

It  was  when  John  was  baptizing  our  Saviour  in 
Jordan,  that  from  out  the  hovering  clouds  that  voice 
proceeded,  saying,  "Thou  art  my  beloved  Son,  in 
whom  I  am  well  pleased." 

About  seventy  miles  from  the  source  of  the  river, 
the  lake  Gennesaret  is  formed — Gennesaret,  sleeping 
among  hills  made  holy  by  the  miracles  of  God.  It 
was  on  this  lake,  when  its  waters  were  surged  by  a 
midnight  storm,  that  the  bright  form  of  Jesus  appeared 
and  spake  to  the  trembling  Peter  those  words  of 
promise  and  of  trust,  which  are  a  legacy  to  his  people 
for  all  time,  "It  is  I,  be  not  afraid." 

And  who  are  these  seated  on  its  shore,  partaking 
of  the  humble  fare  of  fishermen?  Asia's  sun,  or  the 
snow-capped  heights  of  Lebanon,  or  its  mighty  cedars 
and  waving  palms  never  again  looked  down  upon  such 
a  company.  It  was  Peter,  the  impetuous,  angry, 
repentant,  and  finally  martyred  Peter;  Thomas, 
doubting,  yet  loving  ;  Nathaniel,  on  whom  Jesus  pro 
nounced  that  best  eulogium,  "An  Israelite  indeed,  in 
whom  is  no  guile ;"  and  James  and  John  were  there 
and  other  of  the  disciples.  But  most  of  all,  He  was 
there  :  "  He  whom  Plato  longed  to  see,  and  Aristotle 
died  ignorant  of;  "  He,  the  "  Prince  of  the  house  of 
David,"  the  "  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah  ;  "  a  crucified 
Lord  ;  an  ascended  Saviour. 

Even  the  tributary  waters  of  this  river  are  brought 
from  hills  of  sacred  interest ;  Hermon  sends  her  dews 
in  a  sparkling  stream,  and  Tabor  and  Gilead  collect 
their  rivulets  to  swell  the  holy  tide. 


THE    RIVER  JORDAN.  23 

Jordan !  blessed  by  a  Saviour's  footsteps,  made 
glorious  by  his  baptism — Jordan  !  beautiful  and  sad, 
with  melody  in  its  every  ripple,  hope  on  its  every 
wave — pre-eminent  among  rivers,  it  flows,  and  ever 
will  flow,  till  "  death  shall  be  swallowed  up  in  its  own 
river." 


THE    BROOK    CHERITH. 


A  MONG  the  thousand  streams  that  spring  from  the 
^  mountains  of  Judea,  the  brook  Cherith  rises 
from  the  midst  of  rocky,  shelving  crags,  where  only 
the  wild  goat  wanders,  or  the  proud  eagle  builds  her 
nest.  Through  dark  and  tangled  forests  in  which  the 
lion,  coming  up  "  from  the  swelling  of  Jordan,"  makes 
its  lair,  and  the  fierce  and  beautiful  leopard  roams,  the 
deep,  wild  brook  finds  its  way  past  the  solitary  dwelling 
of  Elijah. 

These  heights  were  strange  to  him,  and  these  were 
not  the  waters  of  which  his  childhood  had  tasted. 
Far  yonder  to  the  north  is  Gilead,  where  the  snow 
capped  heights  of  Lebanon  rise ;  and  cedars,  such  as 
never  grew  in  any  other  soil,  wave  their  unfading 
leaves.  Beneath  these  was  the  tent  his  father  pitched  ; 
and  he,  now  the  grave  and  solemn  prophet,  whose 
word  made  King  Ahab  tremble,  and  the  glowing 
cheek  of  the  beautiful  but  wicked  Jezebel  grow  pale, 
was  a  boy,  with  the  wild,  joyous  glow  of  childhood  in 
eye  and  cheek,  hunting  the  partridge  on  the  moun 
tain,  or  chasing  the  wild  roe  from  cliff  to  cliff. 
24 


THE    BROOK    CHERITH.  25 

It  was  a  fitting  home  for  the  boyhood  of  such  a 
prophet.  Not  the  murmuring  of  a  rill,  or  the  song  of 
the  bluebird,  was  the  music  to  which  his  boyhood 
had  listened ;  but  it  was  the  eagle's  screech  and  the 
roar  of  the  wild  cataracts  that  leaped  among  the  hills. 
Though  God  performed  mighty  miracles  by  Elijah 
yet,  in  the  formation  of  character  which  made  of  him 
our  highest  conception  of  a  prophet  of  God,  he  used 
no  miracle — nothing  save  the  ordinary  circumstances 
and  surroundings  which  go  to  make  up  human 
character. 

The  calmness  with  which  he  had  stood  in  his  father's 
tent  in  Gilead  amid  the  clear  sunshine,  and  watched 
far  off  on  Lebanon  the  storm  clouds  flying  wild,  and 
heard  the  rushing  of  mad  torrents  down  its  shelving 
sides,  seemed  to  have  in  it  something  of  that  stillness 
with  which  he  afterward  watched  on  Carmel  the  "fire 
of  the  Lord  that  fell "  and  consumed  his  sacrifice ;  or 
the  fearlessness  with  which  he  answered  Ahab  when 
he  said :  "I  have  not  troubled  Israel ;  but  thou,  and 
thy  father's  house,  in  that  ye  have  forsaken  the  com 
mandments  of  the  Lord  and  hast  followed  Baalim." 

And  here,  alone  beside  this  gushing  brook,  the  old 
man  dwells  in  the  vast  solitude.  Here  the  dark 
winged  ravens  bring  him  food  and  lay  it  at  his  feet ; 
and  to  him  their  strange  and  doleful  cry,  as  they  again 
raise  their  wings  and  float  away  like  a  black  cloud,  has 
become  as  an  anthem  which  tells  of  the  fulfilment  of 
God's  promise,  and  the  clear  waters  of  Cherilh  are 
welcome  to  his  lips  as  the  red  wine.  And  when,  par 
taking  of  the  general  drouth,  the  waters  of  the  brook 


26  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

fail  him,  an  angel  hand  points  toward  Zidon ;  and  far 
away  over  the  hills  and  plains  of  Judea — away  till 
Lebanon  again  appears — he  follows  that  directing 
hand. 

Before  Elijah's  weary  steps  had  reached  Zarephath 
God  had  there  provided  for  him  a  home.  Strange  did 
it  seem  to  the  wavering  faith  of  that  destitute  widow 
that  the  Lord  should  send  a  guest  to  her.  But  when, 
by  a  daily  recurring  miracle,  her  handful  of  meal  and 
her  little  oil  did  not  fail,  and  finally,  when  the  prophet 
had  taken  in  his  arms  and  borne  away  to  his  chamber 
her  dead  son,  and  brought  back  and  laid  him  in  her 
arms  a  living  child,  with  clasped  hands  and  gushing 
faith,  she  cried,  "By  this  I  know  that  thou  art  a  man 
of  God." 

Mysterious  was  his  departure  from  earth ;  strange 
and  glorious  was  his  burial— that  chariot,  those  horses 
of  glowing  flame,  burning  ever  like  the  bush  that 
Moses  saw,  and  like  that  bush  ever  unconsumed — and 
then  that  host  of  horsemen,  u  such  as  earth  saw  never, 
such  as  heaven  stooped  down  to  see." 

Cherith  !  Does  it  still  flow  from  Judah's  holy  hills? 
Does  it  still  pour  its  clear  waters  into  Jordan's  ever 
flowing  river? 

The  running  brook  may  be  dry,  its  mountain  springs 
pour  its  waters  into  other  streams,  but  never  shall  its 
name  be  spoken  but  there  shall  come,  as  by  a  conjurer's 
wand,  the  image  of  a  brazen  sky,  and  parched  earth, 
and  dry  water  courses;  and  sitting  by  one  flowing 
stream  and  drinking  of  its  cool  waters  shall  be  an  old 
and  solitary  man,  and  ravens,  changed  from  carrion 


THE    BROOK    CHERITH.  2j 

birds  to  ministering  doves,  laying  at  his  feet  his  daily 
food.  And  then,  following  on,  shall  he  be  seen  till 
the  flaming  horses  bear  him  away,  and  there  shall  be 
heard  the  far-off  echo  of  Elisha's  voice  as  he  grasps 
the  floating  mantle  and  cries,  "  My  father,  my  father, 
the  horsemen  of  Israel  and  the  chariot  thereof." 


THE    BROOK    BESOR. 


'"PHE  brook  Besor,  springing  from  the  hills  of  Judea 
and  flowing  westward  into  the  "Utmost  Sea," 
crossed  the  accustomed  route  from  Palestine  to  Egypt, 
and  was  a  sort  of  boundary  line  between  the  two 
countries — the  place  beyond  which  a  wild,  unfriendly 
region  lay,  inhabited  by  the  fierce  Amalekite. 

Joseph,  sold  by  his  brethren  to  the  Ishmaelites  as 
they  journeyed  from  Gilead,  "with  their  camels  bear 
ing  spicery  and  balm,"  crossed  this  brook,  leaving 
behind  him  the  home  which  he  was  nevermore  to  see. 
Little  thought  those  "  merchantmen "  that  in  the 
youthful  captive  whom  they  bore  from  his  native 
country,  they  bore  the  hope  of  Israel ;  one  through 
whom  was  to  be  preserved  that  nation  from  whom  the 
Shiloh  was  to  come.  Each  time  that  Jacob's  sons 
crossed  that  boundary  stream,  as  they  journeyed  for 
the  corn  that  their  starving  families  might  not  perish, 
they  must  have  remembered  Joseph,  and  thought  how 
his  young  heart  must  have  fainted  for  his  father  and 
his  home  as  he  entered  into  the  wilderness. 
28 


THE    BROOK    BESOR.  29 

It  was  at  the  brook  Besor  that  two  hundred  of 
David's  men,  "  so  faint  that  they  could  not  follow," 
sunk  by  the  way  in  their  pursuit  after  the  Amalekites, 
who  had  just  borne  away  captive  their  wives,  their 
sons  and  daughters,  and  taken  all  their  treasure.  It 
was  in  a  neighboring  field  that  an  Egyptian  was  found, 
who,  like  so  many  of  themselves,  had  sunk  exhausted 
by  the  way,  and  whom  they  bore  to  their  camp,  and 
who,  refreshed  with  timely  food,  guided  David  to  the 
spot  where  the  Amalekites  were  feasting  and  dancing 
in  their  joy.  Returning,  laden  with  spoil,  and  bear 
ing  in  triumph  the  beloved  captives,  they  were  met 
by  those  who  had  been  lying  on  the  borders  of  the 
little  stream,  and  who,  refreshed,  went  forth  to  meet 
the  rejoicing  company.  And  then  men,  grasping, 
selfish — "  men  of  Belial  " — such  as  there  are  in  eveiy 
army,  in  every  great  assembly,  thought  to  take  advan 
tage  of  those  who  had  been  unable  to  pursue  the 
enemy.  Their  narrow  souls  gloated  over  the  thought 
that  their  own  share  would  be  all  the  greater  because 
of  the  misfortune  of  their  fellows.  And  then  David, 
with  his  voice  of  authority  spake  :  "  Ye  shall  not  do  so, 
my  brethren,  with  that  which  the  Lord  hath  given  us." 
"As  his  part  is  that  goeth  down  to  the  battle,  so  shall 
his  part  be  that  tarrieth  by  the  stuff:  they  shall  part 
alike." 

Across  this  brook  Joseph,  with  "the  young  child 
and  Mary  his  mother,"  fled  from  the  face  of  Judea's 
murderous  king  ;  and  then  again  they  crossed  it  when 
Herod  was  dead,  thereby  fulfilling  the  prophecy  :  "Out 
of  Egypt  have  I  called  my  Son." 


30  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

Waters,  dividing  the  land  of  light  from  a  region  of 
darkness  ;  crossed  by  Israel  and  his  sons  ;  upon  whose 
banks  was  first  set  forth  the  just  and  beautiful  princi 
ple  of  division  which,  for  soldier  and  for  sailor,  is  still 
recognized  as  law  among  all  Christian  nations  ;  passed 
over  by  Joseph,  by  Mary,  and  by  the  Saviour's  youth 
ful  feet,  become  a  sacred  stream. 


THE    BROOK    CEDRON. 


TN  the  hills  about  Jerusalem — those  hills  so  often 
mentioned  in  the  prayer  of  the  Christian :  be 
round  about  us  "as  the  mountains  are  round  about 
Jerusalem," — in  those  holy  hills  the  bright  streams  are 
collected  which  form  the  brook  Cedron.  Full  of 
memories  of  her  kings,  of  her  prophets,  of  Jesus  and 
his  followers,  every  drop  of  its  waters  becomes  saci-ed 
as  the  dust  of  the  streets  of  Zion  itself. 

We  look  into  the  flowing  stream,  and  we  think  of 
the  tears  which  David  and  his  people  wept  as 
they  passed  over  it,  fleeing  into  the  wilderness  from 
the  face  of  the  aspiring  Absalom.  Absalom — the 
light  of  his  father's  eyes — the  joy  of  his  heart ;  whose 
rare,  strange  beauty  he  had  watched  with  all  a  parent's 
pride;  that  he  should  have  raised  a  banner  against 
him.  That  he  who  should  have  been  ready  to  have 
"  met  his  enemies  in  the  gate,"  should  have  been  his 
shield  on  the  battle-field  ;  that  he,  with  his  bewildering 
beauty  and  his  "fair  spoken  words,"  should  "steal 
the  hearts  of  the  men  of  Israel." 

Different — bitterer  far — were  the  tears  that  David 
shed  that  clay  than  those  he  wept  over  Bathsheba's  dead 
boy  for  whose  life  he  had  fasted  and  wept,  but  over 


32  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

whose  cold  clay  he  had  pronounced  those  words  of 
Christian  triumph  and  eternal  faith :  "I  shall  go  to 
him,  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me." 

Aye !  There  are  sadder  tears  than  those  that  are 
shed  above  the  graves  of  the  dead.  There  are  living 
sorrows — sorrows  which  find  no  graves,  which  the 
withered  leaves  of  time  may  never  bury  from  the  sight. 

Weeping  he  passed  the  brook,  and  "  weeping  and 
with  his  head  covered  and  bare-foot,"  he  ascended  the 
mountain,  at  the  base  of  which  Cedron  flows — the 
mountain  whereon  Christ  preached  the  sermon  of  the 
Beatitudes — of  glorious  hopes,  hopes  which  make  the 
Christian  heart  rejoice  like  that  river,  "the  streams 
whereof  shall  make  glad  the  city  of  God,  the  holy 
place  of  the  tabernacles  of  the  Most  High." 

Cedron  the  Saviour's  footsteps  passed  when,  away 
from  the  multitude,  he  so  often  sought  retirement 
among  the  low-spreading  trees  of  Olivet,  or  in  the 
gai'den  of  Gethsemane  which  lay  between  it  and  the 
mountain.  On  Cedron's  banks  was  the  agony — the 
mysterious  passion — the  anguish  of  a  world  of  sin,  and 
on  its  waves  it  bore  the  thrice  uttered  cry:  "O  my 
Father,  if  this  cup  may  not  pass  away  from  me,  except 
I  drink  it,  thy  will  be  done."  Here  the  disciples  lay 
when  Jesus  found  them  sleeping  for  sorrow,  and, 
stooping  down,  whispered  in  their  heavy  ears  those 
words  which  were  for  them  and  for  us,  which  were  an 
admonition  for  all  time  :  "Watch  ye  and  pray,  lest  ye 
enter  into  temptation."  Here  Judas  betrayed  our 
Lord,  and  these  waters  listened  to  the  clashing  of  the 
Roman  arms  as  they  gave  back  the  wild  glare  of  their 


THE    BROOK    CEDRON.  33 

torches,  and  like  a  "  lamb  to  the  slaughter,"  he  was 
borne  away  from  the  garden  which  he  loved,  from  the 
olive  trees  beneath  which  he  had  prayed,  and  from  the 
stream  whose  waters  to  him  had  made  an  anthem. 

Close  to  Rama,  and  having  heard  the  dying  cries  of 
her  murdered  children,  and  the  wailings  of  those 
Rachels,  who  would  not  be  comforted,  having  reflected 
the  bright  star  that  guided  the  shepherds  of  Judea, 
Cedron  at  length  falls  into  the  waters  of  the  Dead  Sea 
— waters  still  heavy  with  the  curse  of  God. 

With  its  holy  surroundings,  springing  from  the 
hills  of  Zion,  passing  the  foot  of  Olivet,  flowing 
through  the  holy  garden,  the  roots  of  whose  olive 
trees  it  moistened,  receiving  David's  tears,  bearing 
upon  its  waves  a  Saviour's  groans — waters  so  holy  to 
pour  themselves  into  that  polluted  sea,  seems  almost 
as  a  type  of  Him,  who  came  down  from  heaven,  from 
heights  which  angels  never  trod,  and  walked  with 
fallen  man. 


THE   RIVERS   OF   BABYLON. 


away  to  the  east  of  Judea  lay  the  land  of 
Chaldea.  Through  its  plains  flowed  the  Eu 
phrates  with  its  tributary  streams,  rendering  the  whole 
land  luxuriant  as  a  garden.  Babylon,  its  capital  city, 
lay  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  and  was  famed  among 
the  nations  for  its  magnificence  and  beauty. 

Thither  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Israel  were  borne 
captive.  Having  seen  the  walls  of  Jerusalem  broken 
down ;  the  house  of  the  Lord,  the  king's  house,  and 
"every  great  man's  house"  burnt  with  fire;  the 
victorious  army  of  the  Chaldees  had  borne  them — 
king,  priests  and  people — triumphantly  to  their  homes, 
leaving  behind  only  "  the  poor  of  the  land  to  be  vine 
dressers  and  husbandmen." 

Though  they  were  bidden  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 
to  "seek  the  peace  of  the  city,"  whither  they  were 
carried  away  captives,  and  to  pray  for  it,  and  though 
the  Lord  inclined  the  hearts  of  the  Babylonish  rulers 
toward  them,  so  that  they  were  treated  with  rare 
clemency,  yet  they  could  not — the  Lord  did  not  ask 
that  they  should — forget  the  land  of  their  birth  and  the 
city  of  their  love. 

The  "  Utmost  Sea,"  stretching  along  her  whole 
western  shore;  "Tabor  among  the  mountains,  and 

34 


THE    RIVERS    OF    BABYLON.  35 

Carmel  by  the  sea  ;  "  Olivet  and  Jordan  and  Gennes- 
aret,  with  their  foreshadowed  glory,  and  Jerusalem, 
"whither  the  tribes  went  up,"  all  these  could  never 
be  forgotten,  and  were  fairer  to  them  than  all  the 
plains  of  Chaldea  and  Babylon,  though  she  sat  a 
queen.  In  these  proud  palaces,  filled  with  spoil 
brought  from  their  own  fair  homes,  their  rulers  dwelt ; 
and  there  the  consecrated  vessels,  which  they  had 
looked  upon  with  shaded  eyes,  careless  hands  bore  to 
profane  lips. 

By  the  quiet  streams  the  captives  were  wont  to  sit 
and  talk  together  of  their  captivity  and  of  their 
vanished  glory.  Thither  their  captors  followed  them, 
and  required  of  them  mirth,  saying  :  "  Sing  us  one  of 
the  songs  of  Zion  "  Sadly  they  replied  :  "  How  shall 
we  sing  the  Lord's  song  in  a  strange  land?"  And,  as 
the  thought  of  song  came  to  them,  and  the  name  of 
their  holy  city  brought  her  walls  and  her  sacred 
temple  more  vividly  before  them,  half  to  their  captors, 
half  as  if  talking  to  themselves,  in  low,  rapt  words, 
they  added,  "  If  I  forget  thee,  O  Jerusalem,  let  my 
right  hand  forget  her  cunning.  If  I  do  not  remember 
thee,  let  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  ; 
if  I  prefer  not  Jerusalem  above  my  chief  joy." 

So  often  did  the  sad  captives  retire  beside  the 
streams  of  Babylon  —  come  thither  to  "lave  their 
bleeding  feet" — that  at  length  those  streams  became 
the  type  of  Israel's  sorrow. 

And  they  are  still  the  type  of  sorrow.  Not  of  all 
sorrow,  but  of  sacred  grief,  of  sanctified  affliction. 
The  merchant,  who  mourns  the  miscarriage  of  his 


36  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

schemes  of  wealth ;  the  politician,  who  fails  of 
political  aggrandizement,  sits  not  by  the  streams  of 
Babylon.  The  shade  of  its  bending  willows,  the 
sound  of  its  slow-flowing  waters  are  not  for  him.  It 
is  for  those  who  "remember  Zion." 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  those  willows  David  walked 
when,  mourning  for  his  dead  son,  he  came  forth  from 
the  chamber  where  he  had  wept,  and  uttered  those 
words  of  Christian  faith  and  triumph  :  "I  shall  go  to 
him,  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me."  Job  was  there, 
when  in  anguish  he  cried  :  "  Though  He  slay  me,  yet 
will  I  trust  in  Him." 

God  help  us  all  in  sorrow  to  sit  beside  the  streams 
of  Babylon,  so  to  receive  from  His  hand  every  change 
that  may  come  to  us,  that  it  shall  draw  us  nearer  to 
Him ; 

"  That  not  one  throb  of  grief,  one  dart  of  pain, 
One  burning  throb  of  anguish,  pierce  in  vain," 

and  grant  that  when  the  days  come,  when  we  shall  no 
longer  walk  among  men,  better  harps  than  those  that 
have  hung  upon  willows  may  be  given  to  us,  and  that 
we  may  join  in  the  songs  of  praise  to  Him  who 
"ascended  upon  high,"  who  "led  captivity  captive, 
and  gave  gifts  unto  men." 


THE    WATERS    OF    THE 
WILDERNESS. 


TT  is   as   serious  as  interesting  to  think  of   the  im- 
mense    importance   which    is   often    attached   to 
affairs  in  themselves   trifling.      The   little   coral   has 
been   the    architect    of  mighty   islands,  and    seeming 
trifles    have    decided    the    destinies    of    armies    and 
of  nations.       When  Israel  was  watching  with  an  old 
man's  childish  interest,  the  making  of  Joseph's  coat, 
marking  the  brilliant  beauty  of  its  colors,  and  fancying 
Joseph's  pleased  surprise  when  he  should  present  it  to 
him  ;  he  deemed  it  only  an  affair  of  his  own,  a  demon 
stration  of  his  affection  for  his  son  with  which  none 
else  had  to  do.     But  what  was  it?      It  was  the  begin 
ning  of  that  long  train  of  events  which  make  up  so 
large  a  portion  of  Bible  history.       It  made  Joseph  the 
second  ruler  in  the  kingdom  of  Egypt.       It  made  his 
father  and  his  brethren  emigrants,  and  their  posterity 
slaves  in  the  land.       It  made  them  a  deliverer  in  the 
person  of  Moses,  and  it  formed   the   background  of 
those  miracles  which  the  Lord  performed  by  his  hand. 
Wanderers  from  Egypt,  they  had  passed  by  a  miracle 
the  waters  of  the  Red  Sea,  and   their  progress  had 
been  a  continued  miracle,  but  experienced  so  often, 
"  all  was  miracle  in  vain."      It  had  begun  to  be  no 

37 


38  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

wonder  that  their  garments  waxed  not  old,  and  their 
shoes  failed  not;  that  manna  fell  fresh  from  heaven 
for  their  food,  and  that  quails  came  in  strange  num 
bers,  and  brought  themselves  as  offerings  to  them. 
That  pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  of  fire  by  night, 
seemed  no  more  a  miracle  to  them  than  the  daily 
brightness  of  the  sun,  or  the  pale  moonbeams.  They 
had  reached  Rephidim,  and  had  pitched  their  tents 
beneath  the  towering  heights  of  Horeb  —  Horeb ! 
What  memories  were"  awakened  in  Moses'  heart  as  he 
again  looked  upon  those  hoary  cliffs  !  Again  was  he 
a  simple  shepherd,  climbing  with  his  crook  those 
rocky,  shelving  heights  in  search  of  wandering  lambs  ; 
or,  reclining  on  the  ground  with  his  faithful  dogs  and 
quiet  flocks,  was  trying  to  catch  upon  his  reed  some 
of  those  Hebrew  tunes  which  he  had  so  often  heard 
Miriam  sing,  when,  in  his  young  boyhood,  he  would 
steal  away  from  his  palace  home  to  his  mother's 
humble  dwelling.  He  thought  of  that  burning  bush 
— burning  ever,  but  unconsumed — out  of  which  the 
voice  came  consecrating  him  for  his  work,  baptizing 
him  for  his  mission.  And  now,  with  wearied  heart, 
he  stood  again  beneath  its  shadow,  surrounded  by  a 
murmuring  people.  But  the  voice  that  he  had  heard 
of  old,  had  bidden  him  go  on,  and  had  promised  to 
stand  before  him  upon  Horeb.  And  He  was  there ; 
so  that  when  Moses  touched  the  rock,  the  waters 
leaped  out  as  if  eager  to  obey ;  and  to  those  who  had 
asked,  "  Is  the  Lord  among  us  or  not?"  He  replied, 
"Thou  calledst  in  trouble,  and  I  delivered  thee :  I 


THE    WATERS   OF    THE    WILDERNESS.  39 

answered   thee    in    the    secret   place   of    thunder :    I 
proved  thee  at  the  waters  of  Meribah." 

For  three  days  had  their  parched  lips  longed  for 
water,  and  the  little  children  had  looked  up  and 
begged  it  of  their  mothers,  eagerly  as  Hagar's  child. 
At  length,  before  them,  a  silver  line  appeared,  and  the 
foremost  shouted  back  to  the  lagging,  fainting  company 
the  one  word—  water.  The  talismanic  name  seemed 
to  infuse  strength  into  their  failing  limbs,  and  young 
boys,  who,  but  a  moment  before,  had  been  ready  to 
sink  exhausted  on  the  sand,  now  bounded  like  roes 
towards  the  running  stream.  With  eager  hands  they 
scooped  the  water  and  raised  it  to  their  thirsty  lips, 
but  scarcely  could  they  taste  from  its  gall-like  bitterness. 
And  then,  a  simultaneous  murmur  rose  like  the  low 
rumblings  of  thunder ;  and  the  cruelties  of  their  task 
masters,  and  the  deliverances  which  they  had  received 
at  the  hand  of  Moses,  were  alike  forgotten  in  the 
memory  of  Egyptian  springs.  And  now  Moses 
prayed,  and  the  Lord  pointed  him  to  a  tree,  which, 
when  he  had  cast  into  the  waters,  they  became  sweet 
as  the  fallen  dew.  That  stream  was  prophetic  of  their 
journey ;  long  and  weary  their  way,  but  terminating 
at  last  among  the  shadowy  palm  trees  and  the  gushing 
springs  of  Palestine.  Marah !  Marah !  Waters  of 
which  many  deeply  drink ;  streams  of  which  every 
human  soul  must  taste.  Blessed  are  they  to  whom 
the  waters  of  Marah  become  sweet ;  to  whom,  tasting 
of  its  bitterness,  it  becomes  medicine  to  the  soul.  The 
promise,  "Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,"  remains  ever 
firm  as  the  bulwarks  of  Zion. 


4O  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

And  now  appeal's  Elim,  with  its  groves  and  foun 
tains.  Elim  !  And  to  how  many  does  the  future 
seem  glorious  as  its  palm  trees,  beautiful  as  its  springs, 
but  proving  only  as  the  mil-age  painted  against  the 
sky !  Or  often,  when  the  hopes  for  the  future  have 
all  been  realized,  and  longings  satisfied,  when  an  Elim 
has  been  reached ;  lo  !  the  palm  trees  cast  no  shadows 
and  yield  no  dates,  and  the  springs  of  its  fountains  are 
forever  dry.  Happiest  is  he,  whose  eye  is  fixed  most 
steadily  upon  the  Jordan  beyond ;  who,  finding  an 
oasis,  rests  there  but  as  a  wayfarer,  thankful  for  a 
night's  repose ;  and,  dipping  into  the  fountain  his 
scallop-shell,  or  tasting  of  Eschol's  grapes,  remembers 
that  he  is  only  a  pilgrim. 


IMMORTELLES. 


'Tis  a  little  thing 


Dropped  in  the  heart's  deep  well ; 
The  good,  the  joy  which  it  may  bring 
Eternity  shall  tell." 

"TJ*RAIL  as  a  flower;"  "withering  like  a  leaf," 
are  expressions  which  well  convey  the  ideas  of 
weakness  and  transitoriness.  We  pluck  the  delicate 
anemone,  and  it  withers  almost  as  soon  as  the  stem  is 
broken ;  we  touch  the  leaf  of  the  mimosa,  and  it 
closes  itself  shrinkingly ;  and  all  the  flowers  of  rarest 
beauty  and  of  most  delicate  perfume,  begin  to  wither 
when  they  have  reached  perfection.  But  there  are 
flowers  which  live  always — live  in  the  perfection  of 
their  bloom,  have  been  transformed  by  the  alchemy  of 
memory  and  of  love  into  flowers  of  fadeless  beauty 
and  of  immortal  fragrance. 

"  The  roses  do  not  blush  so  deep  as  when  I  was  a 
girl,"  said  a  lady  as  she  stood  looking  at  a  beautiful 
pink  rose-bush.  But  we  knew  that  she  was  comparing 
the  flowers  that  were  blooming  there,  with  those 
which  had  been  dipped  in  the  dreams  of  her  youth ; 
and  which  had  there  caught  a  depth  of  coloring, 
which,  for  her,  would  never  be  equalled  on  earth. 

The  pond-lilies  which  the  boys  brought  to  school 
and  scattered  with  a  free  hand,  are  blooming  still. 


42  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

Neither  are  their  white  leaves  and  their  rare  fragrance 
alone  preserved  ;  but  with  them  come  men  from  every 
land,  from  marts  of  trade  and  from  all  professions ; 
and  foreheads,  crossed  and  seamed  with  accounts  of 
business  and  of  care,  become  smooth,  and  they  are  to 
us  boys  again  ;  while  "  the  burial  places  of  memory  " 
give  up  their  dead,  and  from  long  covered  graves 
appear  bright  young  faces  among  the  lilies.  Aye ! 
The  loving  hand  that  gives,  the  word,  the  smile, 
embalms  beyond  all  mystery  of  art. 

Douglas  Jerrold,  in  the  fulness  of  his  fame,  and 
encircled  by  multitudes  who  loved  him  and  gloried 
in  his  genius,  tells  us  that  he  stood  once  a  bare-foot 
boy  at  the  fence  of  a  poor  wood-cutter's  garden  in  his 
native  village,  gazing  longingly  at  the  flowers  that 
were  blooming  there.  "  The  owner,"  said  Jerrold, 
"  saw  the  boy,  and  breaking  off  the  most  beautiful  of 
his  carnations — it  was  streaked  with  red  and  white — 
he  gave  it  to  him.  Neither  the  giver  nor  the  receiver 
spoke  a  word,  and  with  bounding  steps  the  boy  ran 
home.  And  now  here,  at  a  vast  distance  from  that 
home,  after  so  many  events  of  so  many  years,  the  feel 
ing  of  gratitude  which  agitated  the  breast  of  that  boy 
expresses  itself  on  paper.  The  carnation  has  long 
since  withered,  but  now  it  blooms  afresh." 

We  are  told  that  on  a  Sabbath  evening,  many  years 
ago,  a  reckless,  dissipated  young  man  was  lounging 
beneath  the  trees  of  a  public  square  in  Worcester.  A 
stranger  came  along,  kindly  laid  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  asked  him  to  go  with  him  to  a  temper 
ance  meeting  at  the  town  hall.  He  went ;  and  from 


IMMORTELLES.  43 

the  simple  words,  the  kindly  act  of  that  good,  old  man, 
sprang  ten  thousand  "immortelles;"  for  the  young 
man  was  Gough,  through  whose  efforts  so  many  of 
the  fallen  have  been  raised. 

Few  have  ever  won  friends,  given  or  received  hap 
piness  from  the  performance  of  any  great  deeds  of 
self-denial  or  of  genei'osity ;  but  one  who  watches 
carefully  the  path  he  treads,  will  find  many  a  flower  to 
give  to  those  he  meets ;  attentions  so  trifling  that 
they  scarce  seem  worth  the  offering,  but  which  has 
sometimes  lighted  up  a  spirit  itself  scarce  conscious 
from  whence  the  sunshine  has  come. 

Such  a  sunlight  now  we  feel,  though  since  first  it 
shone, 

"  Many  a  daylight's  dawned  and  darkened 
Many  a  night  shook  off  the  daylight.' ' 

There  was  an  Irish  woman  —  a  peddling  Irish 
woman  —  who  brought  sunshine  so  strangely  on  a 
darkened  heart  that  it  made  the  light  gladness  of  girl 
hood  circle  eyes  and  lips  that  had  long  forgotten  the 
expression  of  joy.  She  had  for  sale  pretty  linen 
handkerchiefs  which  she  had  herself  woven,  and  she 
took  from  about  them  one  of  the  bright,  worthless 
pictures  that  usually  come  round  such  goods.  It  was 
of  a  village,  in  Ireland,  and  she  gave  it,  saying  it  was 
her  home ;  and  we  asked  her  to  write  beneath  it  her 
name,  and  that  of  the  village — for  neither  were  easy  to 
be  remembered,  and  we  have  long  forgotten  both — 
but  she  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  regrettingly.  Yes  : 
we  were  indebted  for  a  feeling  of  quiet  pleasure  then, 


44  GATHERED   WAIFS. 

and  of  remembered  happiness  now,  to  a  woman,  who 
could  not  so  much  as  write  her  own  name. 

Whoever  improves  his  every  opportunity  of  doing 
good  or  showing  kindness,  is  on  the  alert  to  help  his 
brother  on  the  way, — has  a  mind  attuned,  ready  at 
the  moment,  for  any  great  emergency ;  and  the  silent 
influence  which  such  a  character  exerts  is  interminable 
— immortal. 

It  was  only  a  farthing  which  the  poor  widow  whom 
Jesus  commended,  cast  into  the  treasury.  It  was  no 
great  thing  which  Dorcas  did ;  and  it  was  only  the 
poor  women  of  the  neighborhood  who  wept  about  her 
coffin,  showed  their  garments  and  smoothed  down 
their  aprons,  saying  that  it  was  she  who  had  made 
them.  Doubtless,  many  rich  in  that  city  had  never 
heard  her  name  till  the  day  she  died,  if  indeed,  they 
heard  it  then ;  but,  now,  for  eighteen  hundred  years, 
her  name  has  been  the  watchword  of  charity. 

However  poor  or  feeble,  all  may  add  something  to 
the  sum  of  human  happiness.  Gardens  of  flowers  are 
ever  ready  for  the  gathering ;  fields,  ever  white  for  the 
harvest.  God  help  us  all  to  be  reapers,  who  shall 
bear  at  last  to  His  feet  the  many  sheaves. 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY. 


His  life  was  gentle ;  and  the  elements 

So  mixed  in  him,  that  nature  might  stand  up, 

And  say  to  all  the  world,  This  was  a  man ! 

— Shakespeart. 

~C*OR  three  hundred  years  the  name  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  has  been  regarded  as  the  type — the  expo 
nent  —  of  all  things  high  and  beautiful  in  human 
character.  History  has  furnished  us  with  examples 
not  less  noble  than  his ;  and  men,  great  and  good  and 
self-sacrificing  as  he,  have  been  cast  into  nameless 
graves.  Many  such  heroes  there  were  in  our  own 
civil  war.  Some,  known  to  God  alone ;  some, 
remembered  only  in  their  old  homes,  or  by  grateful 
comrades ;  and  others,  who,  then,  perhaps,  received  a 
passing  notice. 

We  think  of  such  an  one  now — a  New  England  boy 
— John  B.  Marsh  byname:  forced  into  rebel  ranks, 
deserting  to  our  own,  recaptured  and  led  to  execution, 
he  managed  to  get  into  the  hands  of  a  fellow  prisoner 
a  farewell   to  his   friends.       "I  am  to   be  shot,"  he 
wrote,  "  for  defending  my  country  ;  I  love  her  and  am 
willing  to  die  for  her.       Tell  my  parents  I  am  also 
happy  in  the   Lord.      My  future   is   bright."      And 
standing   beside  his  coffin,  he  removed  his  hat,  and 
looking  at  his  executioners  cried,  "Three  cheers  for 

45 


46  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

the  old  flag  and  the  Union ! "  then,  waving  his  hat, 

shouted,    "Hurrah!    hurrah!    hurrah!"   and   fell,    a 

Christian  martyr. 

And  another — a  missionary's  son — young  Schneider, 

dying  of  wounds,  bright  and  cheerful  to  the  last,  and 
sending  to  his  brother  the  parting  message :  "Stand 
by  the  flag  and  cling  to  the  cross  of  Christ" 

But  Sidney ;  standing  on  the  pinnacle  of  society, 
with  rare  beauty  and  talent ;  the  idol  of  Queen  Eliza 
beth  and  her  court ;  surrounded  by  bad  examples,  by 
sin  in  most  alluring  and  fascinating  guise ;  by  that 
prosperity,  more  tempting  than  adversity  to  have 
made  him  selfish  and  unprincipled ;  yet,  daring  even 
the  displeasure  of  the  despotic  queen,  in  speaking 
what  he  believed  to  be  true,  and  doing  what  he 
thought  to  be  right,  became  the  marvel  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  and  poetry  and  history  immortalized 
him. 

Sidney  was  born  at  the  castle  of  Penshurst  in 
November,  1554.  This  castle  was  a  gift  from  Edward 
VI  to  his  grandfather,  William  Sidney,  who  had  been 
his  tutor,  and  who  had  distinguished  himself  for 
bravery  in  fighting  against  the  Scots.  To  Henry 
Sidney,  the  father  of  Sir  Philip — a  man  of  excellent 
character — this  beautiful  manor  had  descended. 

His  mother,  Mary  Dudley,  was  the  daughter  of  that 
Duke  of  Northumberland,  whose  attempt  to  place  the 
crown  of  England  on  the  head  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  the 
wife  of  his  son,  Lord  Guilford  Dudley,  repudiating 
alike  the  claims  of  Maiy  and  Elizabeth,  brought  his 
own  head,  with  those  of  the  guileless  Guilford  and 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY.  47 

Lady  Jane,  to  the  scaffold.  Another  son— uncle  to 
Sir  Philip — was  that  handsome,  fascinating  and 
wicked  favorite  of  Elizabeth,  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of 
Leicester,  whose  crimes  Scott  reveals  in  his  "  Kenil- 
worth,"  in  colors  no  stronger  than  sober  history 
warrants. 

The  mother  of  Sidney  in  no  way  resembled  her 
bi-other,  unless  in  personal  graces  and  accomplish 
ments  ;  and  the  religious  principle  of  his  father  was 
exemplified  in  a  Christian  "walk  and  conversation." 
In  a  letter  to  his  son,  written  in  '•  quaint  old  Saxon" 
when  he  was  about  twelve  years  old,  he  says:  "Let 
your  first  action  be  the  lifting  up  of  your  mind  to 
Almighty  God  by  hearty  prayer.  Be  courteous  of 
gesture  and  affable  to  all  men.  There  is  nothing  win- 
neth  so  much  with  so  little  cost.  Above  all  things, 
tell  no  untruth,  no,  not  in  trifles."  And  after  much 
other  good  advice,  signs  himself  :  "  Your  loving  father 
so  long  as  you  live  in  the  fear  of  God." 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  went  abroad  for  the  im 
provement  of  foreign  travel.  He  was  a  guest  at  the 
"Paris  Wedding"  -  the  massacre  of  Saint  Bartholomew 
— and  found  refuge,  till  the  danger  was  past,  at  the 
house  of  the  English  minister,  Walsingham.  Here  he 
first  saw  Frances,  the  daughter  of  Walsingham,  "then  a 
beautiful  child,  whose  passionate  grief  for  the  Hugue 
nots  called  forth  his  sympathizing  and  tender  regard," 
and  who,  eleven  years  later,  became  his  wife. 

About  this  time,  in  deep  distress,  he  writes  to  his 
beloved  tutor,  Languet,  announcing  that  Count  Louis, 
of  Nassau,  had  been  defeated  and  mortally  wounded, 


48  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

and  his  brother  taken  prisoner.  This  was  that  Count 
Louis  of  whom  Motley  says :  "  It  is  difficult  to  find  in 
history  a  more  frank  and  loyal  character.  His  life 
was  noble ;  the  elements  of  the  heroic  and  the  genial 
so  mixed  in  him  that  the  imagination  contemplates 
him,  after  three  centuries,  \vith  an  almost  affectionate 
interest."  And  sadder  than  Sidney's  letter  stated,  the 
two  brothers,  Louis  and  Henry,  perished  together  on 
the  battle-field,  and  their  bodies  were  never  found. 

During  an  absence  of  three  years  on  the  continent, 
his  love  and  sympathy  for  the  Protestant  cause  was 
deepened.  He  longed  to  leave  the  flatteries  and 
emoluments  of  Elizabeth  and  her  court,  and  fight 
with  the  Nassaus  the  battles  of  religious  freedom,  but 
the  queen  continually  refused  her  consent.  Sent  by 
her,  however,  on  an  embassy  to  the  court  of  Vienna, 
and  returning  through  the  Netherlands,  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  William  of  Orange,  and,  though 
nearly  twenty  years  younger  than  that  prince,  a  warm 
friendship  sprang  up  between  them,  and  though  they 
never  met  again,  they  corresponded  many  years. 

Soon  after  his  return  from  abroad,  he  desired  to 
marry  one  whom  he  had  known  and  loved  from  child 
hood,  Penelope  Devereux,  the  "  Stella"  of  his  verse. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  that  Earl  of  Devereux,  whom 
the  Earl  of  Leicester  is  supposed  to  have  taken  off  by 
poison,  in  order  that  he  might  marry  the  beautiful 
widow ;  and  sister  of  that  Earl  of  Essex  whose  death 
upon  the  scaffold  brought  to  Elizabeth  a  remorse  and 
grief  to  which  some  historians  attribute  her  death. 
Like  her  unfortunate  brother,  and  no  less  unfortunate 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY.  49 

mother,  she  possessed  rare  beauty  and  accomplish 
ments,  and  the  marriage,  apparently,  would  have 
been  every  way  suitable  ;  but  from  mercenary  consid 
erations  of  her  own,  or  her  relatives,  she  preferred  a 
man  whose  wealth  was  enormous,  but  whose  personal 
character  was  a  perfect  contrast  to  Sidney's.  Her 
marriage  was  a  most  unhappy  one.  .  Sidney's  wife  is 
represented  as  a  lovely  woman  —  better  worthy  his 
affection  than  she  who  won  his  first  love. 

In  1585,  Elizabeth  sent  forces  to  assist  the  Nether 
lands  in  their  struggle  against  Spain,  and  giving 
Leicester  command  of  the  troops,  allowed  "my 
Philip,"  as  she  foolishly  and  fondly  called  Sidney,  to 
accompany  him,  and  appointed  him  Governor  of 
Flushing.  Here  the  true  character  of  his  uncle  seems 
first  to  have  dawned  upon  him.  Whispers  had 
reached  his  ear,  which  he  had  rejected  with  all  the 
warmth  of  family  pride  and  affection  ;  but  now,  with 
his  own  eyes,  he  saw  him  levying  unlawful  taxes, 
altering  the  coin,  and  cheating  the  English  troops  out 
of  their  pay.  In  vain  he  remonstrated ;  but  with  a 
free  hand,  from  his  own  private  purse,  scattered  his 
bounty  among  the  faithful  soldiers. 

Side  by  side  with  the  gallant  Prince  Maurice,  who, 
upon  his  father's  death,  had  become  the  recognized 
leader  of  the  Protestants,  he  fought  the  battles  of 
religious  freedom  with  the  skill  and  valor  of  a  veteran. 

A  hero  among  heroes,  he  fought  on  the  field  of 
Zutphen.  Wherever  the  fight  was  fiercest,  Sidney 
spurred  his  steed.  Two  horses  were  shot  under  him, 
and  he  had  mounted  a  third,  when  he  saw  his  friend, 


50  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

Lord  Willoughby,  surrounded  by  the  foe.  Dashing 
into  the  midst  of  the  affray,  he  rescued  him,  but,  at 
the  same  moment,  received  a  mortal  wound.  It  was 
when  being  borne  from  the  fatal  spot  that  the  beautiful 
incident  occurred  which  has  become  a  classic  story: 

"Being  thirsty  with  excess  of  bleeding,  he  called 
for  drink,  which  was  presently  brought  him ;  but,  as 
he  was  putting  the  bottle  to  his  mouth,  he  saw  a  poor 
soldier  carried  along  who  had  eaten  his  last  at'  the 
same  feast,  ghastly  casting  up  his  eyes  at  the  bottle, 
which  Sir  Philip  perceiving,  took  it  from  his  head, 
before  he  drank,  and  delivered  it  to  the  poor  man,  with 
these  words,  '  Thy  necessity  is  yet  greater  than  mine.' " 

For  sixteen  days  he  lingered,  watched  over  with 
devoted  care  by  his  wife  and  the  friends  who  loved 
him.  Lying  on  his  couch  of  pain  and  death,  brought 
suddenly  from  the  scenes  of  earthly  ambition  to  look 
upon  the  realities  of  a  future  world,  he  expressed 
entire  resignation  to  the  will  of  God. 

The  night  before  he  died,  with  that  strength  which 
faith  in  Jesus  alone  could  impart,  he  said  :  "  I  would 
not  change  my  joy  for  the  empire  of  the  world." 

Just  before  he  breathed  his  last,  he  called  for  music. 
His  thirty-two  years  of  life  were  not  quite  complete, 
when,  October  I5th,  1586,  u  amid  the  harmonies  of 
earth,  the  benedictions  of  love,  and  the  incense  of 
prayer,"  his  soul  went  up  to  heaven. 


HENRY    OF    NAVARRE. 


T  "X  7"E  cannot  find  in  history  a  character  more  lovable, 
attractive,  and,  alas  !  more  dangerous,  because 
so  attractive,  than  that  of  Henry  IV,  King  of  France 
and  Navarre.  The  first  of  the  Bourbon  race  of  kings, 
there  could  hardly  be  a  greater  contrast  than  that 
which  appears  between  him  and  his  descendants :  a 
king  beloved  as  deeply  as  they  were  hated. 

The  traditions  of  his  kindness,  of  his  generosity,  of 
his  courage,  which  made  "  the  white  plume  of  Henry 
of  Navarre,"  the  type  of  everything  gallant  and  chival 
rous,  had  so  floated  down  the  current  of  time,  that  in 
the  French  Revolution  the  insane  multitude,  who 
were  desecrating  the  tombs  of  royalty,  for  two  days 
paused  in  reverence  at  the  coffin  of  Henry,  before  it 
could  be  persuaded  by  its  mad  leaders  to  fling  it  into 
the  common  ditch. 

And  even  in  our  day  the  name  of  the  "  white  plume 
of  Henry  of  Navarre "  is  the  synonym  of  all  that  is 
bold  and  generous  in  human  action.  It  is  always  the 
u  white  plume;"  for,  by  a  strange  contrast,  the  name 
of  the  white  cockade,  the  "  white  feather"  worn  by 
the  grandson  of  his  daughter  Henrietta,  has  come  to 
us  as  the  emblem  of  cowardly  fear. 

It  has  fallen  to  the  souls  of  few  to  be  so  fiercely 
tempted  as  was  the  soul  of  Henry.  He  loved  the 

51 


52  GATHERED    \VA1FS. 

faith  of  the  Huguenots.  He  loved  it  for  the  sake  of 
his  princely  uncle,  the  "Great  Conde,"  who,  falling 
at  the  battle  of  Jarnee,  covered  with  wounds,  had 
cried :  "  It  is  sweet  to  die  for  Christ  and  country." 
He  loved  it  for  the  sake  of  his  noble,  persecuted,  dead 
mother,  who,  when  Catherine  de  Medici  had  urged 
her  to  renounce  it  for  the  sake  of  her  son  and  of  her 
alienated  husband,  had  declared  that  neither  for  her 
son,  nor  for  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  together, 
would  she  peril  the  salvation  of  her  soul.  And  he 
must  have  loved  it  for  its  own  sake,  when,  in  reply  to 
a  prisoner  of  distinction,  who  had  expressed  surprise 
at  the  small  number  of  his  troops,  he  said :  "You  do 
not  see  all  of  them.  You  do  not  count  God  and  the 
right." 

Every  argument  of  a  worldly  sort ;  the  ability  to 
protect  from  persecution  and  to  allow  freedom  of 
worship  to  the  Huguenots,  brought  out  strong,  though 
specious,  reasoning  for  him  to  embrace  Catholicism. 
And,  though  it  was  "a  cruel  disappointment  to  the 
noblest  and  best  among  the  Protestants  to  lose  their 
beloved  and  magnificent  chief,"  there  were  of  them, 
even,  those,  who,  tired  of  the  long  struggle,  fearful  of 
the  repetition  of  the  terrible  scenes  of  the  night  of  St. 
Baitholomew,  were  glad  for  him  to  yield :  glad  to  feel 
assured  that  the  lilies  of  France  would  continue  to  be 
worn  by  a  secret  friend. 

But,  in  spite  of  that  "  white  and  upright  plume," 
the  thread  of  his  Bourbon  father  ran  through  his 
character;  and  for  the  tinsel  of  a  crown,  he  became 
*'  the  eldest  son  of  the  church."  Moreover,  it  has 


HENRY    OF    NAVARRE.  53 

been  said  that  "he  never  recovered  from  the  corrupt 
ing  effects  of  those  early  years,"  when,  in  spite  of  his 
agonized  mother,  he  was  kept  by  his  father  and  by 
Catherine  in  that  wicked,  voluptuous  French  court. 

He  had  not  by  nature,  and  the  grace  of  God  had 
not  imparted  to  him,  that  iron  firmness,  that  unshrink 
ing  integrity,  which  brought  from  William  of  Orange 
his  reply  to  Philip  of  Spain,  when  that  monarch  had 
given  him  to  understand  that  there  was  no  desire  he 
could  express — freedom  for  his  imprisoned  son,  liberty 
of  worship  for  himself,  restoration  of  his  confiscated 
estates — that  should  not  be  granted  him,  if  he  would 
abandon  the  cause  of  the  republic:  "Neither  for 
property  nor  for  life,  neither  for  wife  nor  for  children, 
will  I  mix  in  my  cup  a  single  drop  of  treason." 

That  Henry  became  a  Catholic  only  for  the  peace  of 
France  and  its  blood-stained  crown  was  well  under 
stood.  Beside,  his  nature  was  so  frank,  so  free,  so 
open ;  in  many  respects,  so  akin  to  that  of  his  sainted 
mother ;  for  so  many  years  had  he  breathed  a  wild 
freedom  amid  the  shadows  of  the  Pyrenees,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  for  him  to  conceal  from  friend  or 
foe  his  real  sentiments  and  prejudices. 

Entering  into  a  treaty  with  Spain,  he  pledged  him 
self  to  give  no  assistance  to  the  Provinces ;  then 
furnished  them  with  thirteen  hundred  thousand  crowns, 
saying  that  he  "was  under  great  obligations  to  his. 
good  friends  the  States,  and  nothing  in  the  treaty  for 
bade  him  to  pay  his  debts." 

Jestingly,  mockingly,  he  called  himself  a  Catholic, 
with  the  same  subtle  wit  with  which  he  declared  that 


54  GATHERED   WAIFS. 

"  with  his  Chancellor,  who  knew  no  Latin ;  and  his 
Constable,  who  could  neither  write  nor  read,  he  could 
go  through  the  most  difficult  affairs." 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  Duke  of  Sully,  who  truly 
loved  him,  urged  him  to  secrecy  and  discretion.  The 
generous  and  naturally  truthful  king  could  not  so  act 
a  lie  but  that  the  whole  kingdom  knew  that  his  heart 
was  with  the  Huguenots ;  and  it  was  because  of  this 
that  the  murderous  hand  of  the  fanatical  assassin 
sought  his  life. 

"  Next  Tuesday,"  said  the  king,  "I  shall  cause  the 
queen  to  be  crowned  at  Saint  Denis ;  the  following 
Thursday  she  will  make  her  entry  into  Paris.  Next 
day,  Friday,  I  shall  take  my  departure."  And  he  did 
take  his  departure,  but  not  whither  his  plans  were 
directed.  That  day,  May  I4th,  1610,  he  was  stabbed 
to  the  heart  by  Ravaillac. 

His  rule,  so  kind  and  tolerant  to  all,  was  succeeded 
by  that  of  his  weak  and  bigoted  queen,  who,  for  a 
time,  guided  the  counsels  of  her  son ;  a  son  so  unlike 
his  father — cold,  hard,  relentless,  and  hated  by  his 
people  —  that  his  widowed  queen  said  to  their  son, 
Louis  XIV,  then  a  child :  "My  son,  strive  to  be  like 
your  grandfather  and  not  like  your  father ;  for  when 
Henry  IV  died,  the  people  wept ;  when  i,ouis  XIII 
died,  they  rejoiced." 

The  time-serving  policy  of  Henry  availed  but  a  short 
time  for  the  peace  of  France.  It  was  an  apple  of 
Sodom,  fair  to  look  upon  ;  but  opened,  its  ashes  were 
scattered  down  the  ages.  The  edict  of  Nantes,  the 
glory  of  his  reign,  was  revoked ;  the  land  well  nigh 


HEXRY    OF    NAVARRE.  55 

covered  with  the  slain  of  its  people ;  and  his  own 
blood,  in  the  persons  of  Louis  XVI  and  his  sister 
Elizabeth,  shed  upon  the  scaffold ;  while  the  rest  of 
his  descendants  fled  ignominiously  from  their  native 
land. 

Nor  was  it  alone  on  the  soil  of  France  that  the  war 
fare  was  renewed ;  that  the  "hurt  of  the  daughter  of 
my  people  "  was  opened  afresh.  As  if  personating 
the  warring  elements  of  his  own  soul :  exponents  of 
opposing  principles ;  the  grandson  of  Henry — James 
II — and  the  grandson  of  his  daughter — Prince  William 
— fought  anew  on  the  banks  of  the  Boyne  the  battle  of 
freedom  and  of  faith,  till  the  Christian  world  rejoiced 
to  see  the  bright  orange  flag  of  William  wave  tri 
umphant  in  England. 

Alas  for  the  memory  of  Henry  of  Navarre  !  with  all 
his  magnificent  capabilities ;  with  a  great  and  holy 
trust  committed  to  his  keeping  ;  of  whom  it  was  said, 
referring  to  the  men,  who  in  his  day  sat  on  thrones  at 
Madrid,  Vienna  and  London:  "There  was  but  one 
king  in  Europe." 

He  failed,  because  he  could  not  say  with  the  great 
Netherland  Prince  :  "  Before  I  ever  took  up  the  cause 
of  the  oppressed  Christians,  I  entered  into  a  close 
alliance  with  the  King  of  kings ;  and  am  firmly  con 
vinced  that  all  who  put  their  trust  in  Him  shall  be 
saved  by  His  almighty  hand." 


RICHARD    CROMWELL. 


I  feel  within  me 

A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience. 

— Shakespeare. 

A  PERFECT  contrast  to  his  ambitious,  unscrupu- 
lous  and  wretched  father,  Richard  Cromwell 
appears  on  the  page  of  history,  occupies  a  little  niche 
in  the  royal  walls  of  the  past. 

He  had  seen  his  father  standing  on  the  proudest 
heights  which  his  aspiring  ambition  could  covet— the 
head  of  that  government  of  which  he  had  said:  "I 
wish  the  world  to  respect  the  English  republic  as 
much  as  it  once  respected  the  Roman  republic." 
And  what  had  it  all  availed ;  the  humiliation  of  Hol 
land,  the  conquest  of  Spain  and  the  precedency  of 
every  European  nation  ?  In  the  midnight  watches  he 
had  been  awakened  by  his  restless  step ;  he  marked 
his  furtive  glances ;  noted  the  quick,  nervous  grasp 
with  which  he  would  clasp  his  sword  at  an  unexpected 
sound,  and  he  knew  that  to  him  every  shadow  came 
clothed  in  the  garbs  of  those  he  had  murdered,  and 
that  he  saw  on  every  jewel  in  the  royal  diadem  drops 
of  King  Charles'  young  blood. 

In  the  perfection  of  his  manhood  —  at  an  age  when 
the  pulse  of  ambition  beats  strongest  in  the  human 
56 


RICHARD    CROMWELL.  57 

heart,  when  the  consciousness  of  power  is  best  enjoyed, 
he  had  silently  and  sadly  received  from  his  father's 
dying  hand  the  bequest  of  a  blood-stained  sceptre,  and, 
with  the  name  of  Protector,  had  ascended  England's 
vacant  throne  as  peaceably  as  though  he  had  come 
from  a  long  line  of  kings. 

His  blameless  life,  his  irreproachable  honor  and 
the  openness  and  sincerity  of  his  character,  caused  him 
to  be  respected  even  by  the  most  devoted  adherents  of 
Charles  II ;  but  the  army  over  which  his  father  had 
held  so  powerful  a  sway  and  had  made  subservient  to 
the  great  puposes  of  his  ambition,  excited  by  a  few 
restless  and  ambitious  leaders,  revolted  against  his 
authority. 

"  He  might,"  says  a  historian  of  the  times,  "  have 
preserved  the  heritage  acquired  by  the  exertions  of  his 
father,  had  he  been  willing  to  have  sacrificed  three  or 
four  principal  officers  of  the  army  who  opposed  them 
selves  to  him."  But  to  Richard  Cromwell  the  heights 
of  ambition  were  not  dizzy ,  nor  was  the  cup  of  human 
glory  intoxicating.  To  him  the  voice  of  fame  was  not 
a  melody  half  so  sweet  as  the  far-off  music  of  some 
cottage  home,  and  he  turned  away  with  unspotted 
hands  and  a  peaceful  heart  from  the  blood  bought 
domes  of  Whitehall,  desirous  only  to  perform  the 
duties  and  to  enjoy  the  happiness  of  a  private  citizen. 
The  sons  of  Oliver  Cromwell  seem  to  have  lacked 
neither  the  talent  or  bravery  of  their  distinguished 
father,  but  they  seem  to  have  soared  above  the  fields 
of  ambition,  to  have  been  able,  while  the  hopes  of 
youth  were  fresh  about  them,  to  realize  the  nothingness 


58  GATHERED   WAIFS. 

of  fame  and  cheerfully  to  resign  the  power  which  an 
ambitious  father  had  unjustly  acquired. 

"I  would  rather,"  said  Henry  Cromwell,  the  younger 
brother  of  Richard,  upon  resigning  the  government  of 
Ireland,  which  he  had  managed  with  singular  ability 
and  success,  "  I  would  rather  submit  to  any  suffering 
with  a  good  name,  than  be  the  greatest  man  on  earth 
without  it." 

The  restoration  of  Charles  Stuart  to  the  throne  of 
his  ancestors  was  a  measure  which  the  brothers  appear 
to  have  regarded  with  satisfaction. 

It  was  an  act  which  their  just  and  virtuous  mother 
had  endeavored  to  induce  their  father  to  perform  when 
Charles  had  offered  to  agree  to  any  terms  if  he  would 
place  him  on  the  throne ;  and  to  which,  loving  ever 
the  proud  heights  where  he  trembled  as  he  stood,  he 
answered  in  words  which  implied  an  acknowledg 
ment  both  of  guilt  and  of  cowardice:  "If  Charles 
Stuart  can  forgive  me  all  that  I  have  done  against 
him  and  his  family,  he  does  not  deserve  to  wear  the 
crown  of  England." 

Nothing  perhaps  was  so  trying  to  the  sons  as  bravely 
to  bear  up  against  the  knowledge  that  with  most,  their 
motives  of  laying  down  the  power  which  had  been 
thrust  upon  them,  would  be  misunderstood  ;  that  their 
conscientious  regard  of  right,  their  forgetfulness  of 
everything  but  duty,  would  be  attributed  to  cowardice 
and  inefficiency. 

"Oliver  Cromwell  was  a  great  man;  but  his  son 
Richard  is  a  contemptible  one,  not  knowing  how  to 
enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  father's  crimes,"  said  the  Prince 


RICHARD    CROMWELL. 


59 


of  Conti  to  Richard  Cromwell,  whom  he  met  while 
travelling  in  France  soon  after  his  abdication,  and 
without  knowing  him,  entered  into  conversation  upon 
the  affairs  of  England. 

To  the  honor  of  Charles  II  he  never  attempted  in 
any  manner  to  molest  the  family  of  Cromwell.  Once 
in  hunting,  not  aware  of  whose  residence  he  was 
approaching,  he  rode  to  the  house  of  Henry  Cromwell 
to  obtain  some  refreshment ;  Cromwell  recognized 
him  and  and  was  at  first  a  little  embarrassed,  but  they 
parted  mutually  pleased  with  the  interview. 

Richard  Cromwell  resided  upon  the  continent  for 
nearly  twenty  years  after  his  abdication.  He  then 
returned  to  England  and  passed  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  quiet  seclusion  among  the  sunny  hills  of  Hert 
fordshire.  With  the  snows  of  nearly  ninety  winters 
scattered  among  his  hair,  we  see  him  sitting  peacefully 
by  his  own  hearthstone,  having  outlived  the  reigns  of 
Charles,  of  James  and  the  Prince  of  Orange. 

He  died  in  1712,  it  being  the  eleventh  year  of  the 
reign  of  Anne.  Passing  his  life  in  retirement,  he  laid 
down  in  an  humble  grave  amid  the  groves  of  Cheshunt. 
But  did  he  rest  less  quietly  there  than  his  father  rested 
laid  with  funeral  pomp  in  the  sepulchre  of  long  lines 
of  kings?  The  ashes  which  the  hand  of  vengeance 
scattered  to  the  winds  reply. 


MICHAEL    FARADAY. 


A  S  a  man  of  science,  a  philosopher,  a  "  prince 
•^^  among  the  aristocracy  of  intellect,"  comparatively 
few  are  interested  in,  or  capable  of  appreciating,  the 
character  of  Michael  Faraday ;  but  as  a  good  man, 
singular  for  his  truth  and  simplicity,  he  is  a  subject  of 
interest  and  affection,  capable  of  being  undei'stood  by 
all.  We  value  him  as  we  value  our  friends ;  not  for 
rank,  not  for  wealth,  not  for  intelligence  even,  but  for 
goodness. 

How  infinitely  higher  he  himself  regarded  character 
than  all  the  acquisitions  of  science,  is  shown  in  a 
remark  addressed  by  him  in  a  letter  to  a  scientific 
friend  :  "  After  all,  though  your  science  is  much  to  me, 
we  are  not  friends  for  science  sake  only,  but  for  some 
thing  better  in  a  man,  something  more  important  in 
his  nature,  affection,  kindness,  good  feeling,  moral 
worth" — 

Faraday  was  born  in  London  in  1791.  His  father 
was  a  blacksmith,  poor  in  purse  and  feeble  in  health, 
but  rich  and  strong  in  those  moral  qualities,  which 
were  so  beautifully  developed  in  his  eminent  son.  At 
thirteen  years  of  age  he  became  an  errand  boy  for  a 
bookseller,  and  soon  after,  his  apprentice.  About  the 

60 


MICHAEL    FARADAY.  6 1 

same  time  he  attended  lectures  on  Natural  Philosophy, 
the  money  for  admission  being  given  to  him  by  an 
elder  brother,  who  earned  it  at  his  father's  trade. 

Amid  all  his  successes  and  the  honors  that  were 
showered  upon  him,  he  never  outgrew  the  society  of 
his  humble  relatives  and  friends,  or  forgot  his  love  for 
them.  As  equals  they  ever  met  and  mingled,  giving 
heart  for  heart.  He  remembered  the  days  and  friends 
of  his  boyhood  with  fondest  interest.  He  visited  the 
shop  where  his  father  had  worked,  looking  about  it 
earnestly  and  affectionately  as  though  it  were  an 
"ancestral  hall."  Once  when  sitting  for  his  bust,  the 
sculptor,  in  giving  the  last  touches  to  the  marble, 
chanced  to  make  a  jingling  with  his  chisels ;  and, 
noticing  an  unusual  appearance  of  absence  and  reserve 
in  his  sitter,  and  feai'ing  that  it  had  annoyed  him, 
apologized :  "  No,  my  dear  Mr.  Noble,"  said  Fara 
day,  placing  his  hand  kindly  on  the  artist's  shoulder, 
"but  the  noise  reminded  me  of  my  father's  anvil,  and 
took  me  back  to  my  boyhood."  When  journeying  in 
Switzerland,  he  wrote  of  visiting  a  nail  factory  and 
said,  "  I  love  a  smith's  shop  and  anything  relating  to 
smithery.  My  father  was  a  smith."  In  walking  the 
streets  of  London,  he  would  look  with  kind  interest  at 
the  newsboys,  because,  he  said,  he  used  to  be  a  news 
boy  himself. 

Early  in  life  he  became  interested  in  religion,  but 
did  not  make  a  public  profession  till  he  was  about 
thirty,  when  he  united  with  the  Sandemanians,  per 
haps  the  least  known  and  humblest  of  any  sect.  It 


62 


GATHERED    WAIFS. 


was  the  church  to  which  his  parents  belonged,  and 
where  he  had  received  his  first  religious  impressions. 
But  reasons  stronger  than  these— the  belief  that  its 
doctrines  were  most  in  accordance  with  the  teachings 
of  Jesus  —  doubtless  decided  his  choice.  The  Queen 
and  the  Prince  Consort  might  sit  as  learners  at  his 
feet,  but  the  establishment  presented  no  allurements  to 
draw  him  away  from  the  humble  church  in  which  he 
had  chosen  the  home  of  his  soul.  When  asked  by 
Cardinal  Wiseman,  "If,  in  his  deepest  conviction,  he 
believed  all  the  Church  of  Christ,  holy,  catholic  and 
apostolical  was  shut  up  in  the  little  church  in  which 
he  bore  rule,"  referring  to  his  being  an  elder;  Fara 
day  replied:  "Oh,  no.  But  I  do  believe  from  the 
bottom  of  my  soul  that  Christ  is  with  us." 

And  this  was  enough  for  him.  Enough,  that  there 
he  might  sit  with  Jesus  at  the  well,  and  drink  of  those 
living  waters  which  alone  can  allay  the  thirst  of  an 
immortal  mind.  He  was,  says  Gladstone,  "one  of 
that  long  line  of  scientific  men,  beginning  with  the 
savants  of  the  East,  who  have  brought  to  the  Redeemer 
the  gold,  frankinscence  and  myrrh  of  their  adoration." 

With  all  his  humility  and  meekness,  Faraday  knew 
how  to  value  himself  and  his  own  acquisitions.  When 
Garibaldi  was  visiting  London  at  the  time  his  fame 
was  highest,  some  member  of  the  Royal  Institution 
remarked  to  him:  "We  must  get  Garibaldi  to  come 
some  Friday  evening ; "  Friday  evenings  being  the 
regular  time  for  lectures.  His  quiet  reply  was  :  "It 
Garibaldi  thinks  he  can  learn  anything  from  us,  we 


MICHAEL    FARADAY.  63 

shall  be  happy  to  see  him."  As  a  statesman,  a  war 
rior,  and  a  patriot,  he  might  do  honor  to  the  distin 
guished  Italian ;  but  as  a  man  of  science,  standing  in 
the  rooms  of  the  Royal  Institution,  he  could  regard 
him  only  as  a  pupil. 

It  has  been  said  of  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  that  having 
expressed  a  desire  not  to  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  being  asked,  why  he  wished  that  such  an 
honor  should  be  declined;  replied,  "  Because  they  do 
bury  fools  there."  Expressed  in  a  very  different  man 
ner  from  the  sarcastic  painter,  but  scarcely  less  cogent, 
were  the  reasons  which  Faraday  gave,  why  no  attempt 
should  be  made  to  rewai'd  intellectual  achievement  by 
conferring  titles  of  nobility.  On  this  subject  his  opin 
ion  had  been  desired  by  a  Parliamentary  Committee. 
He  replied,  in  a  letter  expressing  his  gratitude  for  all 
the  kindness  and  attention,  which  he  had  received 
from  his  "  sovereign  downward."  Referring  to  the 
honors  which  had  been  conferred  upon  him  by  princes 
and  learned  societies  of  foreign  lands,  he  wrote.  "  I 
cannot  say  that  I  have  not  valued  such  distinctions ; 
on  the  contrary,  I  esteemed  them  very  highly,  but  I  do 
not  think  I  have  ever  worked  for  or  sought  after  them." 
But  in  regard  to  titles  of  nobility,  he  said:  "Instead 
of  conferring  distinction,  they  confound  the  man  who 
is  one  of  twenty,  or  perhaps  fifty,  with  hundreds  of 
others.  They  depress  rather  than  exalt  him,  for  they 
tend  to  lower  the  especial  distinction  of  mind  to  the 
common  places  of  society."  "  The  distinctions,"  he 
added,  "  being  rendered  very  desirable  and  even  en- 


64  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

viable  in  the  eyes  of  the  aristocracy  by  birth,  should 
be  unattainable  except  to  that  of  science." 

The  marriage  of  Faraday  was  a  singularly  happy 
one.  It  satisfied  his  whole  heart,  and  home  was  to 
him  the  dearest  spot  on  earth.  "  After  all,"  he  said, 
"  there  is  no  pleasure  like  the  tranquil  pleasure  of 
home." 

At  length  the  powers  of  body  and  mind  began  to 
fail.  "  The  fastenings  of  his  earthly  tabernacle  were 
removed  one  by  one."  His  memory  gave  way,  and 
the  strength  of  his  great  mind  declined ;  but  through 
the  dimness,  the  faith,  and  hope  and  joy  of  the  Chris 
tian,  shone  with  unfading  brightness  ;  and,  on  religious 
matters,  he  expressed  himself  with  his  wonted  clear 
ness.  To  his  niece  he  wrote:  "Out  of  the  view  of 
death  comes  the  view  of  the  life  beyond  the  grave,  as 
out  of  the  view  of  sin  comes  the  glorious  hope.  My 
worldly  faculties  are  slipping  away  day  by  day. 
Happy  is  it  for  all  of  us  that  the  true  good  lies  not  in 
them.  As  they  ebb,  may  they  leave  us  as  little  chil 
dren  trusting  in  the  Father  of  Mercies,  and  accepting 
his  unspeakable  gift."  He  died  August,  1867,  at  the 
age  of  seventy-five. 

He  was  buried  by  his  relatives  according  to  the 
simple  rites  of  the  church  to  which  he  belonged.  But 
the  honors  which  he  had  not  sought  while  living,  and 
which  his  family  had  not  sought  for  him  when  dead, 
were  offered  to  his  memory.  Resolutions,  expressive 
of  honor  and  affection,  were  drawn  up  by  learned 
societies  in  all  lands,  and  eulogies  pronounced  upon 
him.  Nothing  seems  better  to  describe  the  earnestness 


MICHAEL    FARADAY.  65 

and  excellence  of  his  character  than  an  expression  of 
his  friend  and  biographer,  Bence  Jones:  "On  every 
occasion  and  in  all  the  varying  circumstances  of  life, 
he  always  endeavored  to  seek  and  say  that  which  he 
believed  to  be  the  truth,  and  to  do  that  which  he 
thought  was  kind." 


EDELWEISS. 


A  STORY  told  in  the  quaint  and  beautiful  style  of 
Germany,  represents  a  mother  parting  with  her 
son  as  he  leaves  their  home  for  foreign  travel.  She 
throws  her  arms  around  him  and  cries,  sobbing:  "I 
have  nothing  more  to  say  to  thee ;  the  father  has  said 
everything.  Only,  when  thou  findest  on  the  Swiss 
mountains  the  little  plant,  Edelweiss,  bring  it  home  to 
me."  She  asks  him  not  to  bring  wealth ;  nor,  with 
the  proud  enthusiasm  of  that  mother  who  bade  her 
son  return  to  her  with  or  upon  his  shield,  to  win  fame  ; 
she  only  asks  him  to  bring  to  her  that  pure,  high- 
blooming  flower— the  Edelweiss — honor  white. 

The  boy — Warren  Hastings — lying  on  the  bank  of 
the  stream  which  flowed  through  the  old  domain  of 
his  family,  made  the  resolve,  never  abandoned,  to 
recover  the  estate  which  had  belonged  to  his  worthless 
father. 

We  remember  well  an  old  woman  of  rare  brilliancy, 
one  whose  very  energy  and  ambition  seemed  to  hold 
age  and  infirmity  at  bay.  It  was  just  as  the  great  Cali 
fornia  gold  fever  broke  out,  and  thousands  of  the 
young  and  strong  and  ambitious  had  gone  thither  to 
seek  their  "  Castles  in  Spain."  And  her  sons,  inheri 
tors  of  her  beauty,  her  energy,  and  her  ambition, 
66 


EDELWEISS.  67 

were  with  the  first  who  found  those,  then,  far-off 
shores. 

"I  have  sent  my  son,"  she  said  to  us,  naming  one 
of  them,  "  a  dozen  pairs  of  socks  that  I  have  knit  for 
him,  and  I  sent  an  odd  one,  which,  I  wrote  him,  he 
might  return  to  me  filled  with  gold." 

And  in  those  sons  that  mother's  wish  was  fulfilled. 
They  held  the  wands  wherewith  some  men  conjure 
wealth,  and  the  children  of  many  generations  dwell  in 
ceiled  houses.  But  among  all  their  names,  known  in 
marts  of  trade,  seen  on  registers  at  the  resorts  of 
fashion,  not  one  is  recognized,  either  by  the  public  at 
large,  as  philanthropist ;  or,  by  those  who  know  them 
in  private  walks,  as  men  of  generous  and  kindly  deeds. 
Among  them,  sons,  grandsons,  all, — not  one  is  known 
as  philanthropist,  scholar,  or  Christian. 

Aye !  What  a  wealth  of  strength,  and  energy,  and 
fine  capacity  was  there  devoted  to  winning  gold  :  win 
ning  it  for  its  own  sake,  and  with  no  thought  of  any 
noble  end.  How  different  might  it  have  been  had 
that  mother,  as  her  gallant  sons  went  forth,  asked, 
wished,  prayed  that  her  sons  might  bring  home  to  her 
that  for  which  the  German  mother  asked— the  Edel 
weiss. 

And  there  was  another  mother,  in  homely  guise,  of 
whom  we  have  been  told  by  one,  who  has  lately  and 
forever  laid  down  his  gifted  and  consecrated  pen,  who, 
when  her  wild,  reckless  boys  were  at  their  revels, 
plead  with  God  for  their  salvation  :  k'  Constant — con 
stant — constant.  When  they're  startin'  out,  an'  when 
they  come  home  roarin'  drunk ;  when  they're  bias- 


68  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

phemin',  and  when  they're  sleepin'.  Sleepin'  ?  Yes, 
when  them  boys — great,  big,  grown  men  now — are 
sleepin'  in  the  other  room,  I  often  an'  often  steals  in 
an'  kneels  by  their  bedside — sleepin'  so  peaceful  'minds 
me  of  when  they  was  babes  an'  children.  I  like  to  be 
near  'em,  touchin'  'em  while  I  pray.  This  one  Lord, 
I  say,  or  this  one — only  me  to  pray  for  them,  Lord! 
O,  if  it  be  possible  !  And  behind  the  butter-beans, 
too  !  Seems  to  me  the  Lord  must  hear  !"  And  the 
Lord  harkened  and  head  her  pleadings,  and  the  mother 
saw  her  sons  clothed  and  in  their  right  minds. 

It  is,  for  the  most  part,  what  we  ardently  wish  for, 
that  is  given  to  us ;  what  we  steadily  look  to  as  a  goal 
for  ourselves,  or  for  those  over  whom  we  have  an  in 
fluence,  that  is  reached.  We  may  not  attain  to  that 
which  we  wish  to  be  in  our  best  moments,  in  moments 
of  high  enthusiasm,  but  we  may  reach  to  that  which 
we  uniformly  wish  to  be ;  what  we  are  willing  to 
deny  ourselves  for  the  sake  of  being ;  what  we  are 
willing  that  our  friends  and  those  we  love  best  should 
blame  us  for,  it  we  feel  sure  in  our  own  consciences 
that  we  are  following  the  voice  of  the  Great  Shepherd. 

In  the  glitter  of  the  world,  in  the  pride  of  life,  amid 
the  allurements  of  beauty,  and  the  songs  of  sirens, 
may  the  words  which  the  Psalmist  pronounced  of  those 
who  "  lusted  exceedingly  in  the  wilderness,  and 
tempted  God  in  the  desert,"  never  be  spoken  of  any 
one  of  us.  "He  gave  them  their  request;  but  sent 
leanness  into  their  soul." 

Happiest  he,  who  stretches  his  hand  most  eagerly 


EDELWEISS.  69 

for  the  Edelweiss;  who  longs  most  for  "whatsoever 
things  are  true,  whatsoever  things  are  honest,  what 
soever  things  are  just,  whatsoever  things  are  pure, 
whatsoever  things  are  lovely,  and  whatsoever  things 
are  of  good  report." 


HENRY  MARTYN. 


TT  is  an  old  forgotten  book,  laid  away  almost  with 
centennials,  its  pages  time-stained  and  lonesome 
looking,  but  it  contains  that  "eternal  sap"  which 
keeps  for  ever  green,  like  the  leaves  of  that  tree  which 
John  saw  in  vision,  and  which  was  given  for  the  heal 
ing  of  the  nations. 

Henry  Martyn  was  born  in  Truro,  among  the  rocks 
of  Cornwall,  in  1781.  His  father,  Mr.  John  Martyn, 
was  a  laborer  in  the  famous  mines  of  that  region ;  but 
by  improving  every  hour  saved  from  toil  in  the  acqui 
sition  of  useful  knowledge,  and  by  a  force  of  character 
like  that  by  which  Hastings  recovered  his  ancestral 
domains,  he  soon  placed  himself  in  a  very  different 
and  more  lucrative  situation.  Understanding  the  value 
of  education,  he  provided  for  his  son  the  best  that 
England  afforded.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  young 
Martyn  entered  the  University  of  Cambridge.  The 
advantages  which  he  there  received  were  rather  the 
result  of  his  father's  efforts  and  anxiety  than  of  any 
exertion  of  his  own.  He  had  much  talent,  but  his 
earnest  wish  to  improve  seemed  to  spring  mainly  from 
the  desire  to  please  his  father.  The  very  sudden 
death  of  that  father  was  blessed  to  his  conversion. 
"While  I  mourned  the  loss  of  an  earthly  parent,"  he 
70 


HENRY    MARTYN.  71 

said,  "  the  angels  in  heaven  were  rejoicing  at  my 
being  so  soon  to  find  an  heavenly  one." 

The  influence  which  turned  his  mind  to  the  work  of 
a  missionary  was,  to  a  large  extent,  wafted  from 
American  shores.  The  reading  of  the  life  of  David 
Brainard,  and  the  "apostolical  zeal  and  success"  with 
which  he  labored  among  the  North  American  Indians, 
first  called  his  attention  to  the  work  of  missions,  and 
filled  his  soul  with  "a  holy  emulation  of  that  extraor 
dinary  man."  From  an  overpowering  sense  of  obli 
gation  and  love  to  the  Saviour,  after  an  intense  conflict 
of  soul,  he  resolved  to  obey  that  Saviour's  last  com 
mand.  On  the  altar  of  Christian  devotion  he  laid  all 
that  he  held  dearest,  —  his  country,  beloved  relatives, 
and  one  so  strangely  dear  to  him  that  he  never  trusts 
himself  to  utter  her  name,  except  as  "the  person 
dearest  to  me  upon  earth."  To  be  a  missionary  at 
that  time,  and  especially  for  a  member  of  the  estab 
lished  church,  was  almost  a  new  thing.  Before  leav 
ing  England,  friends  obtained  for  him  the  situation  of 
chaplain  of  the  East  India-  Company,  it  appearing 
"  peculiarly  eligible,  as  offering  singular  facilities  for 
missionary  exertions  amongst  millions  of  idolaters." 
He  did  not  wait  to  leave  the  shores  of  England  to  do 
"  the  work  of  an  evangelist,"  but  labored  earnestly, 
especially  among  the  poor,  the  dying,  and  the  friend 
less,  to  bring  souls  to  Christ. 

On  his  way  to  Portsmouth,  whence  he  was  to  sail 
for  India,  his  mental  sufferings  were  so  acute  that  "  he 
fainted  and  fell  into  a  convulsion  fit."  "  My  heart," 
he  says,  "was  sometimes  ready  to  break  with  agony." 


72  GATHERED   -WAIFS. 

He  went  forth  to  preach  the  gospel  to  the  heathen, 
and  it  was  his  fixed  resolution  to  live  and  die  amongst 
them.  When  he  left  England,  he  left  it  wholly  for 
Christ's  sake,  and  he  left  it  forever.  He  was  then 
twenty-four  years  of  age,  and,  had  his  purpose  been  a 
worldly  one,  his  position  as  chaplain  of  the  East  India 
Company  was  most  eligible.  But,  in  accepting  it,  he 
turned  away  from  all  he  held  dearest.  More  precious 
to  his  •  heart  would  have  been  the  humblest  home 
among  the  rocks  of  Cornwall  than  the  proudest  palace 
in  India.  It  was  nine  months  from  the  time  he  left 
England  before  he  reached  his  destination.  The  voy 
age  had  been  crowded  with  incidents.  At  Cape  Town 
troops  were  landed  from  their  ship,  and  a  battle  en 
sued.  Six  miles  he  marched  over  the  burning  sands 
to  the  fatal  field,  and  ministered  to  the  dying ;  and 
wherever  the  ship  anchored  and  on  board  of  the  ship, 
he  ever  sought  to  work  for  the  Master.  In  his  work, 
too,  he  had  found  consolation.  Jesus  had  walked  on 
the  waves  of  his  soul,  and  had  said,  "  Peace,  be  still." 
In  March,  1808,  after  a  residence  of  less  than  three 
years  in  India,  he  completed  the  "  great  work  for 
which  in  the  ages  yet  to  come  myriads  will  gratefully 
remember  and  revere  the  name  of  Marty n, — the  ver 
sion  of  the  New  Testament  into  Hindoostanee."  At 
the  close  of  1809,  he  commenced  his  public  ministra 
tions  to  the  heathen.  As  chaplain  of  the  East  India 
Company,  he  had  performed  with  singular  fidelity  the 
duties  of  his  position ;  on  field  and  in  hospital,  with 
officer  and  soldier,  he  was  ever  breaking  the  bi'ead  of 
life  and  offering  water  from  the  wells  of  salvation. 


HENRY    MARTYN.  73 

He  preached  to  the  lowest  class  of  the  heathen,  while 
he  labored  still  for  his  regiment  and  his  "  little  flock 
of  Europeans."  To  a  beloved  fellow-missionary  he 
writes:  "  We  are  shepherds  keeping  watch  over  our 
flocks  by  night.  If  we  fall  asleep,  what  is  to  become 
of  them  !  " 

Unremitted  labors  and  an  enervating  climate  act 
ing  upon  a  delicate  constitution,  forced  him  to  leave 
Cawnpore,  where  his  regiment  was  stationed.  For 
the  last  time  he  preached  to  the  natives,  telling  them 
of  Jesus,  and  exhorting  them  to  believe  on  him.  Mrs. 
Sherwood,  author  of  the  once  well-known  story  of 
"  Little  Henry  and  his  Bearer,"  was  one  of  those  who 
listened  to  his  last  sermon  to  his  English  friends.  She 
says:  "He  seemed  as  one  inspired  from  on  high. 
Never  was  an  audience  more  affected.  The  next  day 
this  holy  and  heavenly  man  left  Cawnpore,  and  the 
society  of  many  who  sincerely  loved  and  admired  him. 
He  left  us  with  little  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  until, 
by  the  mercy  of  our  Saviour,  we  meet  with  him  in 
our  Father's  house." 

He  sailed  down  the  Ganges  still  scattering  the  eternal 
seed,  and  after  reaching  Calcutta,  though  with  a  feeble 
voice,  continued  telling  the  story  of  Jesus  and  his  cross. 
Not  long  after  he  went  to  Arabia,  partly  in  pursuit  of 
health.  "I  now  pass"  he  writes,  "from  India  to  Arabia 
not  knowing  the  things  which  shall  befall  me  there,  but 
assured  that  an  ever  faithful  God  and  Saviour  will  be 
with  me  in  all  places  whithersoever  I  go."  For  a  year 
he  dwelt  in  Shiraz,  Persia,  and,  being  endowed  with 
remarkable  aptitude  in  the  acquisition  of  languages, 


74  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

in  that  time  translated  the  New  Testament  into  Per 
sian.  Martyn  had  hoped  to  present  his  translation  in 
person  to  the  King  of  Persia,  but  was  prevented  by 
dangerous  and  prostrating  sickness.  The  English 
ambassador,  however,  promised  that  he  would  present 
it.  Accordingly,  it  was  laid  before  the  King,  who 
publicly  approved  of  it,  carried  the  manuscript  to  St. 
Petersburgh,  where  it  was  printed  and  put  into  circu 
lation.  Joyfully  he  says:  "  The  way  of  the  kings  of 
the  East  is  preparing.  .  .  The  Persians  also  will 
probably  take  the  lead  in  the  march  to  Zion."  Thus 
he  went  forth,  telling  to  Arabians,  to  Medes  and  Per 
sians,  to  Mohammedans  and  Jews,  the  wonderful 
things  of  God.  And  in  his  work  he  received  exceed 
ing  joy,  nearness  in  communion  with  his  God,  and  a 
peculiarly  sweet  delight  in  the  companionship  of 
friends,  whether  among  clergymen,  in  the  army,  or 
elsewhere. 

Hoping  for  the  restoration  of  his  health,  and  think 
ing  to  return  to  England,  Martyn  commenced  the  long 
journey  from  Shiraz  to  Constantinople.  It  was 
through  the  land  of  ancient  story,  a  way  deeply  inter 
esting  to  him  as  a  scholar  and  a  Christian.  There 
was  Persepolis,  there  was  the  "garden  enclosed," 
there  was  Ararat.  But  in  that  journey  his  sufferings 
from  fever,  heat  and  deprivation,  were  too  great  to 
allow  him  little  more  than  a  consciousness  of  the 
regions  through  which  he  was  passing.  It  was  not 
from  beautiful  scenery  or  classic  memories  that  his 
heart  received  consolation  ;  but  he  saw  a  better  coun 
try,  "  even  an  heavenly  ;"  he  remembered  the  story  of 


HENRY    MARTY N.  75 

the  cross,  and  knew  that  for  him  thei'e  was  a  better 
home  and  a  dearer  friend  than  earth  had  ever  given. 
Attended  by  a  hard,  merciless  Turk,  Hassan  byname, 
he  had  reached  Tocat  in  Turkey,  where,  sinking 
under  the  weight  of  accumulated  sufferings,  or,  as 
some  thought,  from  the  plague  which  was  raging 
there,  he  died  Oct.  16,  1812,  not  quite  completing  his 
thirty-second  year. 

Great  has  been  the  harvest,  and  not  yet  all  gathered, 
which  has  sprung  from  the  seed  sown  by  Henry  Mar 
ty  n.  His  preaching,  his  translations  of  the  Scriptures, 
and  his  example,  are  still  bearing  fruit. 


THE    ELDER'S    HOME. 


It  mav  be  a  sound — 

A  tone  of  music — summer's  eve — or  spring — 
A  flower — the  wind — the  ocean— which  shall  wound, 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound. 

Byron. 
"  Awake  but  one — and,  lo  !  what  myriads  rise  !  " 

r  I  ^HERE  are  scenes  and  places  that  lie  in  the  mern- 
ory,  dim  like  a  landscape  in  the  haze,  or  the  sea 
seen  through  the  mist :  memories  so  faint,  that  we 
half  count  them  among  our  dreams,  or  stories  read 
long  ago.  So  to  us  appears  a  good  old  man  of  whom 
we  were  reminded  in  finding,  as  we  thought,  a  strong 
resemblance  to  him  in  the  engraving  of  a  likeness  of 
Thomas  Jefferson,  taken  in  his  old  age.  He  was  a 
pioneer  Baptist  of  New  England,  "  Elder  Henry 
Smith ;  "  and  the  notices  of  his  death  in  the  time- 
stained  "  Minutes  of  the  York  Association,"  of  more 
than  forty  years  ago,  read  with  the  ring  of  truth ;  the 
church  call  him  "their  aged,  beloved  and  faithful 
pastor;  "  the  ministers  "  resolve."  "  that  we  sincerely 
feel  the  loss  we  have  sustained  in  the  death  of  our 
aged  and  venerable  father  and  brother,  Rev.  Henry 
Smith,  who  was  one  of  the  little  band  that  cherished 
this  Association  in  its  infancy,  has  been  a  firm  pillar 
and  supporter  of  its  interests  about  half  a  century,  .  .  . 

76 


THE  ELDER'S  HOME.  77 

faithfully  and  ably  preached  and  defended  the  doctrines 
and  ordinances  of  the  cross  as  they  were  first  delivered 
to  the  saints,  and  has  been  a  successful  pastor  of  an 
affectionate  and  grateful  church  many  years." 

There  are  legends  of  his  gentleness,  and  of  his 
firmness  as  well.  The  "  Shakers"  —  the  original 
"  Spiritualists" — were  dwellers  near  his  home,  and  in 
his  youth,  thinking  they  perceived  in  him  a  yielding 
spirit,  made  some  effort  to  bring  him  into  their  faith. 
One  of  them  said  to  him,  "  Henry,  your  mother  ap 
peared  to  me  last  night  and  said,  '  Go  to  Henry  and 
tell  him  I  wish  him  to  unite  with  your  people.' " 
"  The  next  time  she  comes,"  said  he,  readily,  "  tell 
her  I  shall  do  no  such  thing." 

He  had  no  salary,  no  presents,  only  that  the  black 
smith  used  to  shoe  his  horse  for  nothing.  Verily, 
"  without  money  and  without  price,"  he  broke  unto  his 
people  the  bread  of  life.  The  memory  and  the  tradi 
tions  of  the  good  are  fragrant  and  long  lasting.  The 
favorite  perfume  of  the  Empress  Josephine  is  said  still 
to  linger  in  the  palace  where  she  dwelt ;  but  the  memory 
and  the  influence  of  the  good  are  immortal,  and  will 
live  when  the  walls  of  Malmaison  have  long  crumbled 
into  dust. 

With  the  pictured  face,  there  comes  the  "  Elder's" 
fair  home — the  farm,  which  his  own  hands  tilled.  A 
grove  of  white  oaks  reared  their  stately  heads  on  an 
ascending  slope  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  there 
was  a  great  ledge  of  smooth  rock,  which  was  beauti 
ful  to  lie  down  upon,  while  the  sun  glinted  through 
the  leaves  of  the  oaks  and  across  the  tops  of  the  firs, 


7  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

whose  roots  lay  below,  at  the  foot  of  the  ledge.  And 
there  were  "  ivory  leaves"  and  plums  and  wild  honey 
suckles  growing  there,  which  made  a  paradise  for  a 
child  ;  and  breezes  laden  with  their  fragrance,  touched 
cheek  and  brow,  on  which  neither  care  nor  sorrow 
had  made  its  writing. 

Near  the  edge  of  the  wood,  where,  in  the  afternoon, 
the  open  sunshine  fell,  there  was  one  large  stump 
where  we  always  sat  down  to  rest,  or  paused,  and 
thought  of  the  lofty  trunk  it  had  once  supported.  It 
had  a  story  of  its  own — a  story  which  broken  hearts 
never  forgot.  It  was  the  mainmast  of  the  ship  "  Isa- 
dore,"  which,  one  December  afternoon,  almost  forty 
years  ago,  for  the  first  time  left  her  moorings,  and  that 
same  night  laid  her  stately  mainmast,  and  all  the  tim 
bers  that  seemed  so  staunch,  and  the  frozen  bodies  of 
fourteen  men — all  who  sailed  in  her — broken  among 
the  cliffs  of  "Bald  Head." 

And  then,  we  remembered  the  funeral,  the  old-fash 
ioned  meeting-house  and  the  old-fashioned  minister. 
We  remember,  he  said,  "  they  met  the  storm,  and 
they  met  it  to  win  its  fury."  And  there  was  one 
among  the  mourners  who  there  mourned  his  only  son ; 
and,  as  he  passed  along  the  aisle  to  follow  him  and 
others  to  their  graves,  he  turned,  and  with  a  beseech 
ing  look  to  the  congregation  said,  "  My  friends,  this  is 
very  hard  for  a  poor  old  man  to  bear."  That  old  stump 
brought  it  all :  the  ship,  that  seemed  so  gallant ;  the 
men,  most  of  them  in  the  strength  of  young  manhood; 
and  that  grief-stricken  old  man,  long  since  gone  home 


THE  ELDERS  HOME.  79 

to   the   Saviour  whom   he   loved,    and   in  whom  he 
trusted. 

In  front  of  the  dwelling  lay  a  bright,  sunny  lake. 
They  called  it  pond — perhaps  lake  seemed  pretentious ; 
and  then,  "  pond  lilies"  grew  there.  Again,  in  a  frail 
boat,  we  cross  those  deep,  quiet  waters.  And  beside 
us  is  he — my  brother — in  the  first  glow  of  his  young, 
beautiful  manhood,  loving  and  strong,  good  and  true. 

Soon  we  ascend  a  hill,  and  come  to  the  "  Shaker 
Settlement,"  and  stand  beside  a  newly  digged  grave, 
with  sides  irregular  and  all  caving  in,  and  he  turns, 
and,  in  tones  so  low  that  our  guide  might  not  hear, 
whispers:  "Wretched  barbarians,  who  know  not 
how  to  dig  a  grave," — words  spoken  in  imitation  of 
a  Polish  patriot,  who,  just  before  he  fell,  a  victim  to 
Russian  vengeance,  looked  into  the  ill-made  grave 
prepared  for  him,  and  uttered  that  expression  of  con 
tempt — again  we  feel  "  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
and  hear  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still." 

Between  the  dwelling-house  and  the  lake,  enclosed 
from  the  meadow  where  the  meek-eyed  cows  grazed, 
was  a  square  of  land  where  the  dead  lay.  The  earlier 
graves  had  headstones,  "•home-made" — smooth-faced 
rocks  with  chiseled  inscriptions,  some  of  which  told 
of  the  old  faith,  "  old  and  beautiful  as  the  stars,"  or 
the  everlasting  hills.  And  here,  among  his  kindred 
and  his  flock,  was  made  the  aged  minister's  grave 
when  he  went  to  that  heavenly  home, 

"  Where  tired  feet,  with  sandals  loose,  may  rest." 


A    REMINISCENCE. 


Days,  weeks,  and  months  but  seem 

The  recollection  of  a  dream, 

So  still  we  glide  down  to  the  sea 

Of  fathomless  Eternity.  — Marmion. 

"\  1  7E  are  looking  from  our  west  far  back  where  the 
sun  shone  so  brightly  on  our  eastern  morn 
ing.  It  is  more  than  twice  twenty  years  since  we 
spent  a  beautiful  month  among  the  hills  of  New 
Hampton.  We  have  not  seen  them  since,  but  we  can 
close  our  eyes,  and  look  again  upon  those  hills  and  see 
the  bright  river  flowing  near. 

With  the  love  for  rambling  which  belongs  to  early 
years,  we  wander  to  the  river  and  step  warily  from 
rock  to  rock  till  we  sit  amid  the  stream — glad  young 
girls,  and  one  exceeding  fair — with  life  in  its  beauty 
spread  before  us.  Or,  where  the  tall,  dark  pines  are 
growing  and  a  brook  gurgling  through,  we  walk  with 
slow  step  beside  another,  and  talk  more  seriously, 
dwelling  on  life's  realities.  She,  with  her  dark,  bright 
face  full  of  energy  and  earnest  purpose,  has  long  been 
a  dweller  in  an  Asiatic  city,  where,  we  doubt  not,  she 
sheds  the  light  of  a  cultivated  intellect  and  a  pure 
Christian  character  over  its  benighted  people. 

Every  Sunday,  during  our  stay  among  the  hills,  a 
long  walk  brought  us  to  the  meeting-house,  an  old, 
80 


A    REMINISCENCE.  8 1 

unsightly  structure  with,  we  think,  un-cushioned 
seats  and  un-carpeted  floor.  But  from  its  uncouth 
pulpit,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  we  listened  to  the 
preaching  of  that  saintly  and  gifted  man  of  God, 
John  N.  Brown.  His  gentle  beauty,  rare  polish, 
poetic  gift,  and  wide-spread  scholarship,  added  to  his 
deep,  earnest  Christian  character,  would  have  honored 
any  pulpit  in  the  land.  But  he  was  one  who  seemed 
to  have  risen  above  ambition  and  desire  for  earthly 
good  as  the  bird  of  paradise  rises  above  the  region  of 
darkness  and  of  storm.  The  fine  face,  the  beautiful 
polish  of  manner,  and  the  poetic  gift  were  the  endow 
ments  of  nature.  Learning  he  loved  and  lived  on  as 
his  daily  food ;  and  all  his  gifts,  like  the  shepherds 
who  followed  the  star,  he  "laid  at  the  Redeemer's 
feet." 

His  wife — she  so  strong  and  brilliant,  with  her  raven 
hair  and  lustrous  eyes — was  a  wonderful  supplement  to 
him  ;  a  help-meet  indeed,  aiding  in  intellectual  pursuits, 
helping  largely  in  his  "  Encyclopedia  of  Religious 
Knowledge,"  but,  especially,  bearing  for  him  the  cares 
and  burdens  of  daily  life.  Loving  him  greatly,  but 
with  an  affection  which,  from  need,  was  rather  a  sus 
taining  than  a  clinging  love. 

We  remember  the  little  white  house  where  they 
dwelt ;  full,  though  God  had  never  given  them  chil 
dren  of  their  own,  full  to  overflowing,  with  young  life. 
Among  them  was  one  happy  girl,  taken,  when  but  a 
few  months  old,  from  a  home  of  wretchedness  and 
nurtured  as  their  own.  Opening  a  book  of  hers  one 
day,  on  the  fly  leaf  we  found,  written  in  a  clear,  open 


82  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

hand,  the  words,  "  Louise,  from  her  own  father." 
More  than  all  the  others,  they  called  her  their  very 
own,  because  in  the  wide  world  she  had  only  them  to 
care  for  and  to  love  her ;  and  when  borne  to  an  early 
grave  no  other  parents  mourned  her  loss. 

It  was  a  marvel  to  all  how  much  good  in  their  quiet, 
independent,  unobtrusive  way  was  accomplished  by 
that  noble  and  gifted  man  and  woman.  One  who 
knew  them  well  and  loved  them  much  and  was  often 
in  their  home,  entering  one  day,  found  Mrs.  Brown  sit 
ting  in  a  litter  of  straw  and  braiding  with  swift  fingers. 
"What  are  you  doing,  Mrs.  Brown?"  was  the  excla 
mation.  "Well,"  said  she,  "Mr.  Brown  has  just 
subscribed  twenty  dollars  for  (naming  some  mission) 
and  he  has  not  so  much  in  all  the  world ;  and  so  I 
have  learned  to  braid  straw  and  make  hats,  and  Mr. 
Burpee  at  the  village  store  has  engaged  to  buy  them 
of  me." 

She  did  not  complain — never  thought  of  such  a  thing 
— for  was  it  not  an  outcome  of  the  sympathy  and 
interest  of  the  noble,  generous,  yet  unthinking,  im 
practicable  being  whom  she  so  loved  !  She  asked  no 
one  to  help  her  out ;  no  one  to  share  the  burden  and 
care.  He  had  himself  pledged  it;  and,  proud,  inde 
pendent,  and  honest  to  the  core,  he  should  not  be  cred 
ited  with  anything  that  he  did  not  do  ;  and  she,  alone, 
was  one  with  him. 

While  absent  at  the  South,  he  wrote  to  his  wife 
letters  of  which  any  woman  might  well  be  proud,  and 
sometimes  containing  little  poems,  which  probably, 
never  saw  the  light.  One  of  these,  held  for  the  long 


A    REMINISCENCE.  83 

years  in  our  keeping,  we  think  too  beautiful  never  to 
be  seen : 

ON    LOOKING    AT    MY    WIFE'S    MINIATURE. 

Do  I  not  love  thee,  vision  of  my  soul ! 

Whose  pictured  beauty  now  before  me  lies  ; 
With  power  my  inmost  feelings  to  control, 

And  draw  deep  tears  of  pleasure  from  my  eyes  ? 
Thy  rich,  dark  hair,  in  its  luxuriant  wreaths, 

Thy  polished  forehead,  throne  of  noble  thought ! 
Thy  smiling  lips,  where  sweet  persuasion  breathes, 

And  thy  dark  eyes,  with  night's  deep  beauty  fraught! 

Do  I  not  love  thee,  Mary !  dearer  far 

Than  when  in  youth,  in  love  and  beauty's  pride 
I  wooed  thee  by  the  light  of  evening's  star, 

And  thy  voice  promised  to  become  my  bride  ? 
Do  I  not  love  thee  more  to-day,  far  more, 

Than  when  I  clasped  thy  trembling  hand  in  mine, 
And  by  thy  side  stood  up,  with  joy  to  pour 

Love's  mutual  vow  at  Wedlock's  holy  shrine  ? 

Nigh  twice  nine  summers  since  have  passed  away, 

Some  tender  memories  each  to  thought  endears  ; 
And  pure  affection,  nourished  day  by  day, 

Grows  with  our  growth,  and  strengthens  with  our  years. 
Ah !  little  know  they  of  its  holiest  power, 

Who  talk  of  Love  as  but  the  Dream  of  youth  ; 
The  Passion-flush,  the  Iris  of  the  hour, 

That  fades  before  the  touch  of  time  and  truth. 

Far  otherwise  I  find  it.     Love's  calm  glow 

Sunlike  shines  on,  gilding  the  stream  of  life ; 
And  as  I  gaze  on  thy  dear  face,  I  know 

Earth  has  no  name  so  dear  as  thine,  My  Wife  ! 
But  thou  art  absent !     'Tis  not  thou  ,  my  love, 

'Tis  but  thine  image  on  this  ivory  scroll ! 
O  when  shall  I  see  thee  thyself  and  prove 

How  much  I  love  thee,  vision  of  my  soul  ? 


84  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

A  wave  of  earthly  ambition  seems  sometimes  to 
have  passed  over  his  mind,  for  in  one  of  those  letters 
he  writes ;  ' '  Would  that  I  could  say  to  you  what  the 
dying  poet  Monti  said  to  his  noble  wife — "  Remember 
that  Monti  cannot  wholly  die  !  Think,  O  think  !  I 
leave  thee  dowered  with  no  obscure,  no  vulgar  name  ! 
for  the  day  shall  come,  when  among  the  matrons  of 
Italy  it  shall  be  thy  boast  to  say :  '  I  was  the  love  of 
Monti.' " 

But  better  and  more  enduring  than  all  the  fame  of 
the  Italian  poet,  is  the  incense  of  grateful  love  from 
many  hearts,  and  the  unfailing  influence  of  a  high 
example. 

The  devoted  wife  outlived  for  many  years  the  be 
loved  husband.  Both  have  now  entered  into  rest ; 
have  doubtless  heard  the  Master's  words,  the  "Inas 
much  ;  "  the  "  Well  done." 


REV.    OLIVER     BARRON. 


These  are  slight  remembrances;  but  it  is  to  little  familiar 
things  suggestive  of  the  voice,  look,  manner ;  never,  never  more 
to  be  encountered  on  this  earth,  that  the  mind  first  turns  in  a  be 
reavement. — Dickens. 

A  NOTHER  of  the  fathers  has  been  called  home ; 
another  laborer  finished  his  "vintage  task ;"  an 
other  soldier  won  his  field. 

For  years  we  had  not  seen  "  Elder  Barren,"  for  he 
long  ago  removed  to  another  State,  but  the  notice  of 
his  death  renewed  a  youthful  memory,  brought  vividly 
back  the  bright,  cheerful  face,  and  frank  kindly  ways 
of  that  honored  man  of  God. 

A  minister  of  the  type  of  Amos,  he  might  have 
said  with  that  ancient  seer,  "  I  was  no  prophet,  neither 
was  I  a  prophet's  son,  but  J  was  a  herdman,  and  a 
gatherer  of  sycamore  fruit ;  and  the  Lord  took  me  as 
I  followed  the  flock,  and  said  to  me :  Go  prophecy 
unto  my  people  Israel."  As  we  sometimes  pass  the 
cultivated  plant  unheeded,  while  the  wild  flower,  or 
the  forest  oak  brings  a  joy,  so  sometimes  we  love  to 
meet  the  man  of  sense  and  intelligence,  who  has  never 
stepped  within  the  shade  of  Academic  walls ;  whose 
mind  has  not  been  trained  in  a  "  school  of  the  proph 
ets;"  and  it  seemed  to  us  that  he  might  have  lost 

something  of  the  originality,  independence,  and  natur- 

85 


86  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

alness  of  his  style  and  manner,  had  he  been  "  through 
a  course  of  instruction."  But  perhaps  he  himself 
might  have  felt  the  want  of  early  advantages,  for  he 
was  ever  warmly  interested  in  the  cause  of  education, 
and  according  to  his  means,  gave  with  a  liberal  hand 
to  aid  others  in  obtaining  its  advantages. 

His  parish  was  many  miles  from  us,  but  matters  of 
business,  or  Sabbath  exchanges,  made  him  a  frequent 
guest  at  the  hearthstone  of  our  home  ;  and  we  remem 
ber  the  cordiality  with  which  he  was  welcomed  by  the 
older  members  of  the  household,  and  how  wide  our 
childish  hearts  opened  to  receive  him;  for  he  was  one 
who  kept  his  heart  young,  whose  youth  lived  not  alone 
in  memory,  but  seemed  transferred  to  the  feelings  and 
enjoyments  of  other  generations.  With  the  intuition 
of  youth,  we  knew  that  his  interested  manner  was  not 
put  on  to  win  influence,  or  steal  our  hearts,  but  that 
it  emanated  from  him  naturally  as  the  morning  song 
from  the  birds.  His  cheerfulness  could  not  have  been 
that  which  sometimes  rises  to  the  surface  of  a  great 
sorrow ;  it  had  a  lightness,  grace  and  beauty  not  to  be 
found  where  shadows  fall. 

He  was  possessed  of  that  rare  power  of  touching 
secret  springs  of  feeling ;  gaining  confidence,  we 
know  not  how.  A  power  which  seems  most  like  the 
gift  supposed  to  belong  to  the  diviner,  in  whose  hand 
the  twig  bends  above  water  springs,  or  the  witch-hazel 
betrays  the  place  where  treasure  lies  hidden. 

In  thinking  of  him,  we  call  to  mind  one  sweltering 
Sabbath  day  in  summer,  when  as  he  was  preaching, 
he  stopped  in  his  sermon,  drew  off  his  coat,  and  lay- 


REV.    OLIVER    BARRON.  87 

ing  it  beside  him,  repeated  in  a  quiet  unaffected  way, 
"  the  Lord  desireth  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice,"  and 
continued  his  discourse.  And  this  he  did  so  naturally, 
so  unconsciously,  that  no  one  felt  his  sense  of  pro 
priety  offended. 

A  man  full  of  impulse,  warmth  and  earnestness,  he 
never  failed  to  express  his  views  of  religious  doctrine, 
or  of  political  opinion  with  unequivocal  openness. 
He  knew  that  as  the  minister  of  an  everlasting  Gospel, 
none  had  a  better  right  than  he  to  be  a  man.  And 
yet  so  frank,  so  true,  with  his  "  heart  upon  his  sleeve," 
even  those  with  opposing  views  never  seemed  to  love 
him  less. 

His  salary  never  could  have  been  thought  large,  but 
he  always  seemed  satisfied  with  it,  and  never  ap 
peared  to  think,  that  the  difference  between  it  and 
the  largest  income  of  any  man  in  his  parish,  was 
something  out  of  which  he  was  wronged.  And  often 
as  we  have  listened  to  him  in  the  freedom  of  familiar 
conversation,  we  never  heard  him  complain  of  any 
one,  or  betray  a  particle  of  envious  or  jealous  feeling. 

Generous  and  noble-spirited,  his  soul  yet  craved  a 
portion  of  the  blessing  which  saith,  "It  is  more 
blessed  to  give  than  to  receive ;"  and,  with  a  liberal 
hand,  as  God  prospered  him,  he  gave  to  every  benev 
olent  or  religious  object  which  came  before  him.  To 
his  friends,  to  the  people  of  his  charge,  to  all  who 
came  within  the  sphere  of  his  influence,  he  manifested 
an  unaffected  sympathy.  He  dealt  largely  in  the 
"  small  passing  civilities — the  decimal  coinage  of  daily 
life  ;  "  that  which  costs  so  little,  which  gives  so  much. 


05  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

And  now  his  true,  joyous  spirit  has  departed.  He 
has  gone  to  that  Saviour  to  whom  he  early  gave  his 
heart,  and  at  whose  altar  he  loved  to  serve.  He  is 
doubtless  resting  "among  the  sheaves"  which  God 
gave  him. 

We  know  little  of  his  life ;  and  of  his  death  have 
learned  nothing  but  the  simple  record:  "In  Wood 
stock,  N.  H.,  August  29th,  Elder  Oliver  Barron,  77. 
He  was  injured  from  the  fall  of  a  tree  the  26th,  and 
died  the  29th.  Although  death  came  suddenly,  it 
found  him  prepared  for  the  summons."  But  we  trust 
that  some  "  In  Memoriam"  of  him  may  be  prepared, 
that  his  name  may  not  be  forgotten ;  and  that  the  fra 
grance  of  his  memory  may  be  preserved  in  the  denom 
ination  which  he  loved  and  served  so  well. 


THE    PHANTOM    WITNESS. 


TT  was  afternoon  in  April — April  with  its  changing 
light  and  shade,  its  sunshine  and  its  rain — and 
its  fitful  light  shone  cheerlully  in  the  many  happy 
homes  of  Devonshire. 

In  one  such  home,  surrounded  by  comfort  and 
beauty,  was  seated  a  lady  of  about  thirty-five.  She 
was  a  woman  of  most  pleasing  appearance.  There 
was  something  about  her  that  at  once  imparted  the 
idea  of  strength  of  character,  honesty  of  purpose  and 
gentleness  of  disposition.  Seated  near  her  and  en 
gaged  on  the  same  piece  of  embroidery  was  her  step 
daughter —  a  girl  of  nineteen. 

It  was  a  fair  picture :  the  mother  with  her 
commanding  presence,  her  dark  complexion  and  large 
deep  blue  eyes  and  almost  black  hair ;  and  the  young 
girl  —  the  very  personification  of  the  Saxon  —  fair, 
with  sunny  eyes  and  light,  wavy  hair,  and  the  look  of 
trusting  love  which  ever  and  anon  she  turned  upon  her 
mother,  showed  that  she  loved  and  was  beloved  even 
as  she  might  have  been  by  her  that  bore  her. 

Emily  Harcouit  had  gone  to  the  widowed  home  of" 
her  husband  with  a  heart  full  of  love  for  his  orphan 
child,  not  only  because  it  was  his  child,  but  also  that 
the  mother  of  the  little  girl  had  been  the  chosen  friend 

89 


9O  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

of  her  youth ;  and  with  all  the  warmth,  the  clinging 
love  of  a  childish  heart,  did  Mary  Wilde  return  that 
affection,  and  as  years  passed  on,  strove  by  many  an 
act  of  kindness  and  of  cai*e  to  her  little  half  brother  and 
sister,  to  repay  in  some  measure  the  debt  of  gratitude 
she  owed  their  mother. 

"It  is  William,  mother,"  said  the  young  girl,  as  a 
shadow  passed  the  window  and  a  step  was  heard  in 
the  hall,  and  joy  circled  her  sunny  eyes  —  but  the 
mother's  look  was  very  grave  though  kind. 

William  Burton  was  certainly  handsome  enough  to 
make  a  young  girl's  heart  beat  quick,  and  her  cheek 
flush  with  a  deeper  glow,  and  hers  especially,  to  whom 
he  had  professed  his  love. 

With  fine  form  and  features  faultless,  his  dark  hair 
curling  about  his  white  temples,  his  eyes  large  and 
bright,  and  his  winning  smile  revealing  teeth  perfect 
in  form  and  whiteness,  no  wonder  that  he  had  won  a 
young  girl's  heart. 

But  those  large  eyes,  so  dark  and  bright,  too  often 
shone  with  such  a  light  as  that  a  fallen  angel's  might 
have  had,  and  the  expression  of  that  winning  smile 
would  change  to  a  look  clouded  and  sinister.  But  this 
the  girl  never  noted.  She  only  thought  that  William's 
smile  was  beautiful,  and  knew  that  she  was  happiest  in 
its  light. 

The  father,  too,  was  pleased  at  the  thought  of  hav 
ing  the  handsome  and  enterprising  Burton  for  a  son- 
in-law  ;  but  the  mother  had  from  the  beginning  shrunk 
from  him  with  an  indefinable  dread,  perhaps  the 


THE    PHANTOM    WITNESS.  9! 

deeper  and  the  sadder  because  it  was  so  ill  substan 
tiated. 

Burton  had  inherited  from  his  maternal  grandfather 
an  estate  lying  a  few  miles  from  Tiverton,  and  it  was 
in  his  brief  and  occasional  visits  to  this  estate  that  he 
had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mary  Wilde. 

To  her  husband  Mrs.  Wilde  had  unhesitatingly 
spoken  of  her  aversion,  her  half  dread  of  young 
Burton,  and  had  expressed  a  belief  that  mercenary 
motives  were  influencing  him  in  regard  to  Mary,  since 
she  had  received  from  her  mother  a  considerable 
fortune.  But  Mr.  Wilde,  well  satisfied  both  with  the 
appearance  and  position  of  Burton,  regarded  his  wife's 
feelings  of  suspicion  as  wholly  uncalled  for,  and 
thought' them  so  entirely  unfounded  that  Mrs.  Wilde 
had  ceased  to  speak  of  a  want  of  confidence  for  which 
she  could  give  no  definite  reason. 

As  the  marriage  day  drew  near,  her  feeling  of  dread 
—  the  presentiment  of  evil  —  rendered  her  absolutely 
melancholy,  although  she  made  every  suitable  prepa 
ration  for  the  festivities  .of  the  occasion,  and  en 
deavored  to  appear  cheerful  and  happy. 

There  was  nothing  on  that  bridal  morning  that 
seemed  portentous  of  evil ;  no  dark  cloud  in  the  sky, 
no  threatening  storm,  no  blight  upon  the  flowers  that 
were  scattered  in  the  way,  and  no  sudden  faltering  in 
the  voice  that  pronounced  the  mystic  words  of  the 
marriage  ceremony.  The  sunbeams  shone  upon  the 
stained  glass  of  the  church,  and  painted  with  its  vary 
ing  tints  the  long  aisles  and  marble  slabs,  hiding  with 
its  uncertain  light  the  ravages  of  time  on  the  brow  of 


93  GATHERKD    WAIFS. 

the  aged,  and  lending  a  richer  glow  to  the  fairness  of 
youth,  while  they  seemed  to  fall  with  a  brighter  light 
where  Burton  stood  in  his  bold,  strong  beauty,  and 
Maiy  in  the  trustingness  of  her  love. 

Was  it  not  a  morbid  fancy  that  would  dream  of 
anything  bvit  happiness  on  that  morning,  with  its 
glorious  flood  of  light  shining  on  so  much  youth  and 
beauty?  And  Mrs.  Wilde  began  to  reason  that  all 
must  be  well,  and  accused  herself  of  morbidness,  even 
when  that  presentiment  of  evil  had  taken  the  strong 
est  possession  of  her. 

London  was  to  be  the  future  home  of  Burton  and 
his  bride,  and  immediately  after  the  marriage  they  left 
in  a  one  horse  carriage  for  that  great  metropolis. 

A  year  passed  away,  and  April  came  again.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wilde  had  occasionally  received  letters  from 
Mary,  but,  though  the  father  noted  nothing  of  the 
kind,  Mrs.  Wilde  continually  spoke  of  a  constraint  and 
lack  of  freshness  in  her  letters  which  seemed  most 
unlike  the  freedom  and  frankness  that  had  ever  marked 
her  character.  They  all  appeared  as  if  coined  in  the 
brain  alone, —  there  were  no  little  home  incidents — 
no  bubblings  from  the  heart;  and  Mrs.  Wilde  an 
swered  them  with  forced  cheerlulness  and  a  heart  full 
of  a  strange  pity. 

"I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Wilde  to  her  husband  one 
evening  after  a  late  return  from  business,  "I  know 
that  you  have  little  sympathy  in  my  boding  thoughts 
lor  our  poor  Mary ;  but  to-night  as  I  sat  here  alone,  it 
is  true  with  thoughts  full  of  sadness  and  foreboding  on 
her  account,  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  her 


THE    PHANTOM    WITNESS. 


93 


presence  filled  the  room,  and  as  I  raised  my  eye 
toward  the  entrance,  she  stood  there  just  as  she  looked 
on  the  morning  of  her  marriage,  save  that  she  was 
deadly  pale,  and  that  the  smile  that  played  around  her 
mouth  and  the  light  that  circled  her  eyes  was  very 
sad.  Her  wreath  of  orange  flowers  too  was  broken 
and  partly  torn  from  her  hair,  and  her  white  robe  was 
all  stained  with  blood  which  was  still  trickling  from 
her  side,  while  she  raised  her  arm  and  pointed  toward 
the  old  Burton  mansion,  and  then  her  eyes  met  mine 
with  an  imploring  gaze.  I  know  you  think  I  was 
dreaming,  but  surely  it  was  no  dream;  it  was  a  com 
munication  sent  me  from  the  world  of  spirits,  telling 
me  that  our  poor  Mary  is  murdered." 

The  next  morning,  to  gratify  his  wife's  entreaties 
and  with  the  hope  of  removing  the  strange  idiosyncrasy 
which  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  her  mind, 
Mr.  Wilde  went  with  her,  accompanied  by  two  work 
men  to  whom  he  had  imparted  his  purpose,  towards 
the  Burton  estate. 

As  they  approached  an  old,  ruined  summer-house, 
Mrs.  Wilde  suddenly  paused,  and  turning  deadly  pale, 
said,  "I  believe  it  is  here." 

The  men  listlessly  proceeded  to  the  work  which 
appeared  so  idle  and  vain,  while  Mr.  Wilde  regarded 
them  with  painful  indifference,  and  his  wife  looked  on 
with  an  expression  of  agonized  suspense.  Raising  a 
board  in  the  last  layer  of  the  floor,  the  workmen  started 
as  they  saw  the  soiled  end  of  a  ribbon, — another  board 
was  raised,  and  there  lay  Mary,  her  fair  hair  still  floating 
around  her,  though  her  sweet  features  only  told  of  the 


94  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

earth  mould  and  the  worm.  Her  white  bonnet,  worn 
for  the  first  time  on  the  morning  of  that  fatal  marriage, 
lay  near  her,  and  the  wedding  ring  still  circled  her 
skeleton  finger. 

Then  the  strong  man  bowed  himself,  and  a  burden 
was  laid  upon  that  father's  heart  too  heavy  for  passing 
years  ever  to  remove;  while  as  the  mother  saw  the 
realization  of  her  dread  forebodings,  she  turned  away 
with  a  heart  scarce  sadder  or  more  certain  of  evil  than 
when  that  fair  girl  left  her  home  a  bride. 

Was  this  a  home  for  crime?  Would  it  turn  away 
from  the  lanes  and  alleys,  from  the  dark  and  loathsome 
cellars,  or  from  the  gorgeous  saloons  of  the  gambler 
and  drunkard,  and  come  to  this  suburban  cottage 
home,  with  its  jasmines  and  roses,  its  air  of  taste, 
elegance  and  refinement  scattered  everywhere  ;  and  the 
fairy  child  —  a  girl  so  beautiful  —  resting  in  a  fair 
mother's  arms.  And  there  was  Burton,  so  bold,  so 
handsome,  and  alas  !  so  bad. 

As  the  officers  of  justice  came  upon  him,  he  had  just 
entered  the  room,  and  leaning  his  hands  on  the  back 
of  a  chair,  was  regarding  with  a  look  of  fond  affection 
his  wife  and  child. 

Could  crime  darken  a  picture  so  fair?  Even  those 
stern  men,  so  used  to  the  deceptive  forms  of  guilt, 
started  back  as  though  it  were  impossible  that  a  crimi 
nal  could  form  one  in  a  tableau  so  touching.  But  the 
evidences  were  too  strong  against  him,  and  Burton 
was  made  a  prisoner. 

His  wife,  innocent  and  unsuspecting  of  his  crime, 


THE    PHANTOM    WITNESS.  95 

had  loved  him  with  a  sincere  devotion,  and  had  little 
dreamed  on  her  marriage  day  that  the  hand  that  so 
fondly  held  her  own  was  scarce  washed  from  the 
blood  of  a  victim  as  full  of  hope  and  beauty  as  herself, 
and  that  many  of  his  wedding  gifts  to  her  had  been 
purchased  with  the  gold  he  had  so  coveted. 

But  hers  was  a  fate  to  be  deplored  with  even  greater 
bitterness  than  was  that  of  Mary  Wilde,  for  Mary  had 
died,  as  the  confessions  of  Burton  revealed,  unconscious 
that  it  was  his  hand  that  had  dealt  the  fatal  blow  ;  while 
she  lived  to  see  the  husband  she  had  loved  a  condemned 
felon,  and  even  her  innocent  babe  looked  on  with  sup 
pressed  horror  as  the  child  of  a  murderer. 


A  STORY  FROM  REAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER    I. 


Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
They  kept  the  even  tenor  of  their  way. 

—  Gray. 


you  think  it  is  time  for  Richard  to  be 
here,  mother?"  said  Margaret  Manning,  as  she 
dropped  upon  the  spindle  the  yarn  that  she  was  spin 
ning,  and  walking  to  the  window,  looked  earnestly 
along  the  path  that  led  to  the  cottage. 

"  He  will  soon  be  here,  for  it  is  nearly  six  o'clock," 
replied  her  mother,  laying  down  the  cards  with  which 
she  was  preparing  rolls  for  her  daughter  to  spin,  and 
picking  up  the  broken  brands  beneath  the  tea-kettle, 
that  hung  on  the  crane  in  the  huge  fire-place. 

Their  home  —  the  brown  gable-roofed  cottage  — 
was  situated  on  an  eminence  in  a  wild,  hilly  tract  of 
country,  on  the  sea-coast  of  Maine.  The  morning 
sun  rose  from  out  the  mighty  ocean,  and  set  at  even 
ing  behind  rugged  hills  covered  with  pines  and  firs. 
Dwelling  houses  were  sparsely  scattered  over  the 
region,  and  not  even  one  could  be  seen  from  Mrs. 
Manning's  cottage,  not  so  much  because  of  distance  as 
of  the  intervening  hills  and  woods. 

Mrs.  Manning  had  come  with  her  young  husband 
from  the  "  Province  of  Massachusetts  Bay,"  twenty- 
96 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  97 

rive  years  before,  and  careful  industry  and  patient  toil 
had  reared  for  them  their  comfortable  cottage,  and 
reclaimed  from  the  waste  their  little  farm.  The  early 
advantages  of  Mrs.  Manning  had  been  of  a  superior 
character,  and  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  bring  into 
exercise  all  the  energies  of  a  strong  heart  and  culti 
vated  intellect,  when  she  was  left  a  widow  with  three 
children,  and  no  other  resource  than  their  rather 
unproductive  farm. 

Robert,  her  oldest  son,  now  twenty-three  years  of 
age,  was  a  person  of  energy,  manliness  and  decision ; 
and  though  but  a  boy  of  twelve  at  the  time  of  his 
father's  death,  he  had  at  once  assumed  the  almost 
entire  care  and  management  of  the  farm.  His  char 
acter  early  matured  in  the  exercise  of  those  faculties 
which  are  seldom  called  into  play  in  the  midst  of 
affluence.  The  spirit  and  activity  of  boyhood  were 
not  crushed  or  depressed  in  him,  b'ut  they  were  di 
verted  from  their  usual  channels.  Fishing,  skating  or 
where  hazel-nuts  grew  thickest,  were  no  longer  sub 
jects  of  absorbing  interest ;  but  he  would  listen  with 
eager  and  careful  attention,  whenever  he  heard  the 
neighboring  farmers  talking  of  the  best  time  of  sow 
ing  grain,  planting  vegetables,  or  cutting  timber  and 
firewood ;  and  his  mind  thus  became  strong  and 
thoughtful,  and  he  was  early  looked  upon  by  all 
around  as  a  person  of  sound  judgment,  sterling  sense 
and  much  intelligence. 

Richard,  the  youngest  of  the  family,  had  from  the 
age  of  nine  to  sixteen,  been  an  invalid ;  and  for  this 
reason  had  been  able  to  gratify  and  cultivate  an  ear- 


98  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

nest  thirst  for  study.  The  number  of  books  that  had 
fallen  into  his  hands  had  been  limited,  and  therefore 
the  better  mastered.  He  pored,  and  dreamed,  and 
thought  over  them,  till  he  seemed  to  inhale  their 
essence,  and  incorporate  them  with  his  being.  Books 
of  English  study — grammar,  mathematics  and  history 
— their  own  cottage  had  afforded  ;  while  their  minister 
— a  strange,  silent  old  man — had  always  been  ready  to 
lend  him  what  few  books  his  library  furnished,  and 
had  been  to  him  a  kind  and  able  instructor.  But 
"  Shakspeare,"  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  the  works 
of  Swift,  were  almost  the  only  books  of  recreation 
that  had  fallen  into  the  boy's  hands,  and  on  this  strong 
food  the  powers  of  his  young  mind  expanded ;  while 
his  interest  and,  as  far  as  he  was  able,  participation  in 
the  cares  and  labors  of,  the  family,  imparted  to  him  an 
early  character  of  thought  and  energy. 

Margaret  was  one  year  the  senior  of  Richard,  and 
from  his  having  been  so  much  confined  by  sickness, 
had  been  his  constant  companion.  There  was  be 
tween  them  a  beautiful  sympathy  of  mind  and  heart — 
a  consciousness  as  it  were  of  each  other,  derived  not 
so  much  from  words,  or  direct  communication,  as 
from  a  sort  of  intuition.  They  possessed  the  same 
strong  and  delicate  feelings,  and  the  same  deep  and 
absorbing  sense  of  the  beautiful,  whether  found  in  the 
pages  of  the  poet,  or  seen  in  the  sunshine  and  shade 
of  the  actual  \vorld. 

Beauty  and  Genius  !  As  often  does  it  dwell  at  the 
cottage  hearth  as  in  the  princely  halls  of  affluence ; 
and  it  seems  to  spring  in  greater  strength,  and  more 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  99 

perfect  loveliness,  through  the  stubborn  soil  of  poverty, 
than  when  surrounded  by  the  fostering  care  of  wealth. 
The  aspiration  is  higher,  the  struggle  deeper,  the  suc 
cess  more  glorious. 

For  more  than  two  years,  Richard  had  been  in  the 
employ  of  a  mercantile  firm  in  the  town  of  Ports 
mouth,  ten  miles  distant.  He  had  entered  upon  his 
new  duties  with  the  earnestness  and  ability  consistent 
with  his  character,  and,  perhaps,  the  more  eagerly, 
that  during  the  years  in  which  he  had  been  an  invalid, 
the  idea  of  his  inability  to  share  in  the  labors  of  his 
brother,  had  constituted  his  one  trouble. 

Walter  Hayne,  the  only  son  of  their  nearest  neigh 
bor,  whose  house,  however,  was  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  distant,  was  employed  in  the  same  firm  with 
young  Manning,  and  they  "took  turns"  in  visiting 
their  homes,  each  coming  every  alternate  Saturday, 
and  returning  on  Monday. 

It  was  now  the  evening  for  Richard's  return,  and 
the  hour  had  long  past,  at  which  he  usually  reached 
the  cottage.  The  shadows  deepened  around,  and  the 
firelight  gleamed  more  brightly.  It  was  a  home  for 
comfort :  that  broad  stone  hearth,  the  ample  fire-place, 
in  which  now  a  pitch  wood  torch,  placed  upright, 
sent  its  bright,  fitful  gleams,  and  made  the  shadows 
dance  around  the  room  ;  and  the  little  bright  grains 
that  were  mingled  with  the  sand  brought  from  the  sea 
shore,  and  scattered  in  tasteful  figures  over  the  white 
oaken  floor,  glistened  like  tiny  diamonds;  while  "the 
pewter  plates  on  the  dresser  caught  and  reflected  the 
flame,  as  shields  of  armies  the  sunshine."  On  the  old 


IOO  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

fashioned  round  table,  covered  with  a  pure  white 
cloth,  was  spread  the  evening  meal,  ready  for  the 
little  family  to  partake,  as  soon  as  he  arrived. 

CHAPTER    II. 

Maybe  without  a  further  thought, 

It  only  pleased  you  thus  to  please, 
And  thus  to  kindly  feelings  wrought, 

You  measured  not  the  sweet  degrees  ; 
Yet,  though  you  hardly  understood 

Where  I  was  following  at  your  call, 
You  might — I  dare  to  say  you  should — 

Have  thought  how  far  I  had  to  fall. 

— Milnes. 

It  was  one  of  the  changing  days  of  April,  min 
gling  in  its  character  the  different  seasons  of  the  year. 
Great  patches  of  snow  lay  scattered  among  the  brown 
hills;  the  brooks  leaped  and  gurgled  beneath  their 
thin  icy  glazings,  and  the  brown  and  withered  leaves 
of  the  preceding  autumn,  lay  scattered  beneath  the 
trees,  whose  buds  were  swelling  for  the  leaves  of  an 
other  summer.  The  sunlight  fell  upon  the  sea,  and 
the  foamy  crests  of  the  waves  sparkled,  as  though 
from  their  deep  troughs  they  had  caught  up  diamonds. 
To  the  north,  the  faint  blue  of  the  White  Mountains 
was  seen  through  the  clear  atmosphere,  mingling  with 
the  deeper  blueness  of  the  sky,  where  the  light  fleecy 
clouds  were  floating  like  ships  drifting  upon  a  wave- 
less  sea  ;  while  to  the  west,  the  tall  pines  and  dark  firs 
seemed  to  set  the  landscape  as  in  a  frame-work. 

Richard  Manning  stood  there  alone  upon  the  shore 
— alone  in  the  pride,  the  glory,  and  the  happiness  of 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  IOI 

youth.  The  sea,  the  sunlight,  the  rugged  hills,  the 
waving  trees,  and  the  ocean  breeze,  as  it  came  up  and 
mingled  with  the  strongly  scented  air,  that  swept 
through  the  pines,  all  seemed  to  breathe  into  his  soul, 
that  high  enthusiasm,  that  thirsting  for  beauty  and 
truth,  which  is  at  once  the  hope  and  the  prophecy  of 
youth. 

It  was  to  him  one  of  those  days  that  mark  a  life 
time  ;  the  emotions  of  which  remain  forever  stamped 
upon  the  soul  —  fossilated,  as  it  were,  within  the  in 
most  recesses  of  the  being  —  and  give  form  and 
strength  to  every  sentiment  of  love,  and  truth,  and 
beauty. 

Manning  had,  through  the  recommendations  of  his 
present  employers,  a  few  days  before,  received  a 
lucrative  offer  from  a  mercantile  house  in  Boston,  to 
become  its  agent  at  Cadiz.  It  was  proposed  for  him 
to  go  at  once  to  Boston,  and  make  himself  familiar 
with  the  business  to  be  entrusted  to  him,  and  then 
proceed  to  Spain  the  ensuing  September.  He  received 
the  proposal  with  the  utmost  pleasure,  and  would  at 
once  have  accepted  it,  had  he  not  felt  that  there  were 
others  than  himself  to  consult.  He  therefore  prom 
ised  to  give  his  answer  as  soon  as  he  should  have 
visited  home,  at  the  same  time  expressing  his  inclina 
tion  to  accept  the  offer. 

But  it  was  not  alone  the  thought  of  his  family  that 
made  him  hesitate  :  he  thought  of  another — of  Mabel 
Grey — the  bright  vision  that  had  floated  into  his  soul, 
and  tinged  every  purpose  and  feeling,  like  the  blush- 


IO2  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

ing  hue  that  touches  the  leaves  of  the  white  rose  when 
first  they  open  to  the  sun. 

Mabel  Grey  was  indeed  beautiful  enough  for  a 
poet's  love ;  and  even  a  stranger  could  scarce  have 
looked  into  those  soft  brown  eyes,  and  marked  the 
sunny  brightness  of  the  smile  that  played  so  often 
about  her  sweet  rosy  mouth,  without  feeling  toward 
her  a  sense  of  irresistible  attraction.  Her  manners, 
too,  were  fascinating  as  her  beauty ;  and  she  had 
received  all  the  advantages  of  education  and  polish, 
which  her  position,  as  the  child  of  wealthy  parents, 
afforded. 

Her  home  was  in  Boston ;  but  she  had  been  in 
Portsmouth  for  several  months,  on  a  visit  to  her 
cousin,  Mary  Weston,  to  whom  Walter  Havne  had 
been  for  some  time  engaged.  From  being  clerk  in  the 
same  house,  as  well  as  from  much  that  was  congenial 
in  character  and  disposition,  a  strong  friendship  had 
sprung  up  between  Hayne  and  young  Manning. 
Manning  had  sometimes  called  at  Mr.  Weston's  with 
his  friend,  and  there  he  had  first  met  Mabel  Grey. 

Every  facility  had  been  afforded  to  their  intimacy : 
and  she  had  awakened  in  his  soul  all  that  love,  of 
which,  a  deep  and  earnest  nature  is  capable;  while 
he  rejoiced  in  the  consciousness  that  his  affection  was 
returned.  He  knew  it  from  the  increased  brightness 
of  her  smile,  and  the  loving  light  that  filled  her  eyes, 
whenever  he  drew  near  her ;  and  he  heard  it,  when, 
in  addressing  him  her  voice  murmured  a  softer  ca 
dence,  than  when  she  spoke  to  others. 

The  father  of   Walter   Hayne,   as  we  have    said, 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  103 

resided  about  a  mile  from  the  cottage  of  Manning's 
mother ;  and  Mrs.  Hayne,  wishing  to  receive  a  visit 
from  Mary  Weston  previous  to  her  marriage  with  her 
son,  had  extended  the  invitation  to  Mabel  Grey,  partly 
to  supply  her  with  a  companion  in  their  retired  home, 
and  partly  because  she  knew  that  Mary  could  not 
otherwise  well  leave  home,  while  Mabel  was  visiting 
at  her  father's,  and  both  of  them  were  now  spending 
a  few  weeks  at  the  fine  old  homestead  of  Mr.  Hayne. 

Of  Mabel,  young  Manning  thought,  as  he  stood 
there,  upon  the  seashore ;  and  of  every  bright  vision, 
she  formed  a  part. 

Hitherto,  he  had  felt  that  there  had  been  little  need 
of  words  between  them  ;  for  both  were  young,  and  it 
seemed  to  him,  that  their  beautiful  consciousness  was 
sweeter  than  words  could  make  it. 

Now,  that  he  was  about  to  form  so  important  a 
decision,  involving  his  absence  for  several  years,  he 
felt  that  she  should  be  at  once  consulted ;  and  before 
going  to  his  mother's  house  he  determined  to  call  for 
a  while  at  Mr.  Hayne's,  that  he  might  in  words,  ex 
change  with  her  the  pledges  of  a  love,  which  each 
had  silently  acknowledged,  and  unfold  to  her  all  his 
plans  and  purposes. 

With  eager  step,  a  cheek  flushed  with  strong  emo 
tion,  and  eyes  radiant  with  the  light  of  youth,  and 
hope,  and  love,  he  entered  the  dwelling. 

He  came  out  with  pallid  face,  and  his  large  eyes 
looking  cold  and  stony. 

A  few  hours  before,  and  he  was  a  boy,  bright  and 
joyous  as  the  sunshine  of  spring;  now,  that  which 


104  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

had  made  existence  beautiful — the  ethereal  essence  of 
joy — had  vanished,  and  might  never  more  be  gathered 
to  fall  upon  his  heart. 

Mabel  had  received  him  with  that  air  of  fondness 
which  left  not  a  doubt  of  the  success  of  his  errand ; 
and  her  voice  lost  none  of  its  loving  tones,  as  she  told 
him  that  she  had  long  been  engaged — engaged,  she 
said,  before  she  had  ever  had  the  happiness  of  know 
ing  him. 

In  the  anguish  and  confusion  of  the  moment,  he 
forgot,  or  heeded  not,  the  way  that  led  to  his  mother's 
cottage ;  but  after  wandering,  he  knew  not  where,  he 
at  length  reached  it. 

"  Richard,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Manning,  marking,  as 
soon  as  he  entered,  his  wild  and  haggard  look,  and  the 
paleness  which  the  flickering  light  rendered  the  more 
ghastly,  "what  has  happened?  are  you  ill?" 

"  I  am  well,  quite  well,"  he  answered,  in  a  hoarse, 
constrained  voice;  and  then,  at  once,  made  every 
home  inquiry  with  an  appearance  of  usual  interest. 

Margaret,  aware  of  her  brother's  feelings  towards 
Mabel  Grey,  immediately  conceived  that  his  strange 
manner  was  somehow  connected  with  her,  and  fore- 
bore  to  make  any  remark  which  could  possibly  em 
barrass  him  ;  but  before  retiring  to  rest,  she  stole  softly 
into  his  room. 

He  was  sitting  silent  and  immovable  in  his  chair, 
and  gazing  fixedly  on  the  lengthening  wick  of  the 
candle,  that  was  burning  on  the  table  before  him. 
He  heeded  not  the  approach  of  his  sister,  nor  turned 
his  eyes  toward  her,  till,  bending  over  him,  she  whis- 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  1 05 

pered,  "  Is  anything  the  matter  with  Mabel,  dear 
Richard?" 

He  started  suddenly;  then  turning  his  head  slowly 
toward  her,  he  looked  up  and  said,  "  Mabel  is  soon  to 
be  married  to  another.  Do  not  talk  of  it,  Margaret. 
Good  night."  And  they  spoke  of  it  no  more ;  save 
that  on  the  succeeding  Sabbath  afternoon,  when  lean 
ing  over  his  shoulder,  she  read  on  a  scrap  of  paper 
that  was  lying  in  a  book  which  he  held  before  him 
these  lines : 

My  boat  is  on  a  stormy  sea, 

The  breakers  wild  are  chasing  me; 

And  rocks,  and  shoals,  and  sands  are  near 

O,  whither,  whither  shall  I  steer ! 

She  took  the  pencil  from  his  hand  and  wrote 
beneath  them : 

Look,  there  is  a  light  'mid  darkness  gleaming, 
See,  there  is  a  star  from  Heaven  beaming : 
I  know,  I'm  sure,  that  light  will  safely  guide, 
That  star,  it  points  beyond  this  whelming  tide. 

And  with  a  look  of  sorrow  that  went  to  her  heart,  he 
looked  up  and  said,  "  the  clouds  are  too  heavy,  I  can 
not  see  the  stars  through  them." 


A  few  months  later,  and  Manning  stood  on  the 
deck  of  the  vessel  that  bore  him  from  his  native  land. 

It  is  strange,  the  power  of  a  breath  of  wind,  a  ray 
of  sunshine,  a  strain  of  music,  or  a  gleam  of  beauty, 
to  awaken  to  high  endeavor  —  to  revive  forgotten 
hopes. 


IO6  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

He  leaned  over  the  vessel's  side,  feeling  that  for 
him  life  had  no  longer  any  purpose  —  the  wealth  of 
his  affections  had  been  frittered  away  —  his  manhood 
insulted.  A  breath  of  wind 'stirred  the  hair  about  his 
temples ;  he  slowly  raised  his  head,  looked  at  the  sea, 
reflecting  in  its  calm  beauty  the  Tyrean  colors  of  an 
autumn  sky.  He  removed  his  cap  and  as  the  light 
breezes  played  upon  his  forehead  and  among  his  hair, 
a  new  inspiration  stole  over  him ;  and  he  resolved 
that  however  blighted  to  himself,  his  life  to  others 
should  not  be  a  failure. 

CHAPTER  III. 

"The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  hath." 

It  were  hard  to  tell  which  is  the  happier  —  those 
hearts  that  are  deep  as  mountain  wells :  whose  even- 
strong  emotion  becomes  an  ecstasy  or  an  anguish,  and 
where  love  —  the  one  love  of  the  heart,  is  strong  as  its 
own  fibres  ;  or  those  which  are  capable  of  no  intensity 
of  feeling,  and  dream  not  of  the  depths  which  they 
have  never  fathomed. 

Mabel  Grey  was  not,  perhaps,  really  an  evil-minded 
woman,  but  there  were  no  depths  in  her  soul.  Never 
had  she  met  with  one  whose  society  had  been  more 
pleasing  to  her  than  young  Manning's,  or  one  for 
whom  she  had  exerted  more  her  powers  of  fascina 
tion  ;  and  yet  she  had  no  purpose  to  injure  him 
permanently,  nor  would  she  have  done  so,  even  for  a 
brief  period,  had  not  her  own  pleasure  and  vanity 
been  concerned. 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  107 

She  kept  her  engagement  to  another,  neither 
from  love  or  truthfulness,  but  because  it  secured  the 
wealth  and  luxury,  which,  she  well  knew,  the  bride 
of  Manning  must,  at  least,  for  a  long  time  forego. 

Receiving  a  love  as  light  and  volatile  as  that  she 
gave,  she  married — married  as  thousands,,  as  ten 
thousands  marry  everywhere.  Both  were  pleased, 
and  the  world  said,  it  was  a  "  good  match."  And 
when,  after  a  union  of  several  years,  death  made  her 
a  widow,  for  a  few  days  she  seemed  inconsolable, 
and  then  her  tears  were  dried,  and  she  never  thought 
to  weep  more. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Like  a  still  serpent,  basking  in  the  sun,  *~ 
With  subtle  eyes,  and  back  of  russet  gold, 
Her  gentle  tones  and  quiet  sweetness  won 
A  coil  upon  her  victims  —  fold  on  fold, 
She  wove  around  them  with  her  graceful  wiles, 
Till,  serpent-like,  she  stung  amid  her  smiles." 

Dwelling  in  the  beautiful  home  of  his  childhood, 
Walter  Hayne  had  been  for  many  years  married  to 
his  early  choice  —  Mary  Weston,  when  they  received 
a  visit  from  their  widowed  cousin  Mabel.  They  wel 
comed  her  to  their  home,  and  saw  no  serpent  coiled 
at  their  feet;  no  "shrinking  Mimosa"  closing  its 
leaves  "  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate." 

Mrs.  Hayne  was  a  woman  of  open  and  unsuspi 
cious  temper,  and  thought  as  little,  when  engaged  in 
domestic  affairs,  of  leaving  Mabel  to  be  entertained 
by  her  husband,  as  she  would  have  done  of  leaving 


IO8  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

her  to  listen  to  the  prattle  of  her  boys.  But  at  length 
a  sorrow,  such  as  in  her  life  before  she  had  never  ex 
perienced,  stole  over  her  —  first,  like  a  shadow  — 
then,  darkening  her  whole  being. 

She  saw  intuitively  that  Mabel  was  more  silent  in 
her  presence  than  when  left  alone  with  her  hus 
band.  If  she  unexpectedly  entered  the  room  where 
they  were  seated,  the  tones  of  her  voice  would 
change,  and  she  would  conclude  an  unfinished  sen 
tence  in  a  manner  different  from  what  she  believed  it 
would  have  been  had  she  not  entered.  Still,  her  de 
portment  was  of  that  character  which  can  only  be  felt 

—  so  little  tangible,  that,  brought  into  words,  it  seems 
like  jealousy ;  and  she   shrank  from  speaking  to  her 
husband  of  what  might  appear  like  a  want  of  trust  in 
him.     She  knew,  moreover,  that  he  was  unconscious 
of  Mabel's  artful  and  enticing  ways  ;   and  unconscious, 
too,  of  that  which  her  own  aching  heart  saw  too  well 

—  the  silent  admiration  which  he  was  bestowing  upon 
her. 

Happy  in  the  heaats  of  those  who  loved  her, 
Mrs.  Hayne  had  never  before  longed  for  beauty  —  for 
those  rare  charms,  which  everywhere  attract  the 
heart.  But  now,  as  she  gazed  on  her  beautiful 
cousin,  with  a  sense  of  anguish,  she  would  contrast 
the  delicately  tinted  cheek  with  her  own  flushed  with 
the  heat  of  over-exertion ;  and  from  the  fair  white 
hand  would  turn  to  her  own,  "  brown  as  an  oak-leaf 
in  winter,"  and  then  with  a  struggle  she  would  ivink 
back  the  tears  that  came  unbidden. 

As  weeks   faded    into    months,    she   kept   hoping 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  109 

that  Mabel  would  say  something  about  returning  to 
her  home.  And  she  would,  indeed,  sometimes  men 
tion  it,  but  never  except  in  the  presence  of  her  hus 
band,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  poor  Mrs.  Hayne,  only 
to  elicit  from  him  renewed  invitations  to  lengthen  her 
visit,  till  she  almost  begun  to  despair  of  ever  rid 
ding  herself  of  her  guest. 

Mr.  Hayne  had  for  several  weeks  been  engaged 
in  getting  ready  for  sea,  a  vessel  in  which  he  was 
concerned,  and  therefore  had  remained  in  Ports 
mouth,  from  whence  the  ship  was  to  sail  for  Liver 
pool,  only  returning  home  on  Saturday  and  remain 
ing  over  the  Sabbath. 

Much  as  she  loved  her  husband,  this  was  a  great  re 
lief  to  Mrs  Hayne ;  while  Mabel  consoled  herself 
in  his  absence  by  getting  up  a  flirtation  with  a  you'ng 
man,  named  Stanley,  a  stranger  in  the  neighborhood, 
but  who,  as  agent  of  a  firm  with  which  Mr.  Hayne 
had  dealings,  had  frequently  called  on  him  for  pur 
poses  of  business. 

Mrs.  Hayne  had,  from  the  first,  felt  for  him  an 
irresistible  repulsion.  It  seemed  to  her  that  there 
was  something  evil  and  sinister  in  his  expression ; 
and  she  was  ill  pleased,  when  she  found  him  made 
a  constant  and  welcome  guest  at  her  home,  by  one 
who  had  little  right  to  assume  the  liberty.  She 
could,  however,  easily  enough  have  born  this,  had  not 
Mabel  continued  her  fond  and  devoted  manner  to  her 
husband  whenever  he  returned  home. 

Worn  out  with  her  own  outraged  feelings,  one  even 
ing  when  Stanley's  visit  had  extended  into  midnight, 


HO  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

she  said  to  him  with  a  manner  as  polite  as  the  words 
were  freezing:  "Mr.  Stanley,  if  it  would  be  as  con 
venient  for  you,  I  prefer  that  your  visits  here  should 
be  made  on  evenings  when  my  husband  is  at  home. 
I  shall  then  be  happy  to  receive  those  who  may  choose 
to  honor  us  with  their  society." 

The  words  were  spoken  for  Mabel,  for  she  felt  that 
in  some  unaccountable  way,  she  always  contrived  to 
keep  Stanley  away  on  the  evenings  of  her  husband's 
return.  Taking  Mabel  by  the  hand,  and  bidding  her 
"good  night"  in  a  low  tone,  and  bowing  coldly  to 
Mrs.  Hayne,  he  at  once  left  the  house. 

The  next  Saturday  night  came  —  Mrs.  Hayne  walked 
to  the  garden  gate,  hoping  to  meet  her  husband  alone. 
But  she  had  stood  there  only  a  few  moments,  when 
Mabel  came  gliding  toward  her  with  some  light  excuse ; 
and,  then,  as  Mrs.  Hayne  replied  only  in  monosyllables 
to  all  her  attempts  at  conversation,  she  turned  and 
began  to  cull  the  flowers  which  Mrs.  Hayne  had  cul 
tivated  beside  the  path. 

She  picked  the  choicest  rose-buds  and  all  the 
sweetest  flowers,  and  then,  coming  again  toward  Mrs. 
Hayne,  remarked :  "I  have  gathered  some  of  your 
most  beautiful  flowers  to  give  Mr.  Hayne.  As  you 
have  cultivated  them,  he  ought  to  enjoy  them." 

How  these  words  mocked  her ;  and  Mabel  knew 
that  they  mocked  her,  but  stood  too  much  in  fear  of 
her  cousin  to  offer  the  bouquet  to  her  husband,  in  her 
pi'esence,  without  some  plausible  words  for  a  prelude. 

Oh,  how  Mrs.  Hayne's  heart  burned  as  she  saw  the 
flowers — her  flowers — and  listened  to  the  low  witching 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  Ill 

sound  of  Mabel's  voice.  Then  she  thought  if  she  had 
only  remembered  to  gather  them  for  him  herself;  but 
Mabel  had  been  such  a  distraction  to  her,  that  she  had 
almost  forgotten  how  to  think. 

She  listened  now  for  her  husband's  step  with  a  sense 
of  dread,  rather  than  of  longing.  She  kept  waiting 
on,  Mabel  ever  flitting  near,  till  she  thought  that  he  had 
been  unexpectedly  detained,  and  would  defer  his  return 
till  morning.  But  not  once,  while  the  two  were  wait 
ing  there,  was  the  object  of  their  watching  named,  and 
they  entered  the  house  without  a  word. 

Mrs.  Hayne  dragged  through  the  long  hours  of  the 
succeeding  Sabbath,  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  she  sent 
for  Robert  Manning,  and  telling  him  her  anxiety, 
requested  him  to  go  at  once  to  Portsmouth,  and 
ascertain  what  kept  her  husband. 

He  came  back  with  the  strange  intelligence,  that 
Mr.  Hayne  had,  himself,  sailed  for  England.  That 
unexpected  events  had  prevented  the  captain  of  the 
ship  from  fulfilling  his  engagement,  and  as  she  could 
not  be  detained  without  much  damage  to  the  owners, 
Mr.  Hayne  had,  at  the  moment  of  departure,  deter 
mined  to  take  passage  himself  and  manage  her  finan 
cial  affairs ;  while  the  mate,  who  was  a  good  sailing 
master,  assumed  the  office  of  captain.  But  he  had 
left  no  letter,  nor  even  a  message  to  his  wife. 


Burning  with  anger  and  the  desire  of  vengeance, 
Stanley  had,  on  leaving  the  house  of  Mr.  Hayne,  met 
at  the  door  Robert  Manning,  who  had  come  to  request 
Mrs.  Hayne  to  accompany  him  to  his  mother,  who 


112  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

had  been  taken  suddenly  and  alarmingly  ill,  and  whom 
he  thought  it  not  safe  to  leave  alone  with  the  inexpe 
rienced  young  girl  who  lived  with  her,  while  he  went 
several  miles  for  a  physician.  Each  started  in  surprise 
at  meeting  the  other  at  so  unusual  an  hour;  but  Stan 
ley  passed  on  without  a  word,  and  at  once  conceived 
the  thought  of  forming  from  the  unexplained  circum 
stance,  the  dagger  wherewith  to  strike. 

Early  the  following  morning,  Stanley  proceeded  to 
Portsmouth.  He  found  Mr.  Hayne  on  board  the  ship, 
and  taking  him  aside,  exerted  all  his  art  and  cunning 
to  excite  in  his  bosom  suspicion  towards  his  wife. 

Mr.  Hayne,  with  an  open  and  generous  temper,  a 
stranger  to  art  himself,  and  blind  to  its  existence  in 
others,  was  a  man  of  quick  and  violent  passions,  and 
was  at  once  roused  into  fury.  The  vessel  was  ready  to 
drop  down  the  bay ;  while  at  the  same  moment,  oc 
curred  the  uncertainty  and  confusion  occasioned  by  the 
captain's  unlooked  for  detention.  Thus,  the  plan  of 
going  himself  to  manage  the  financial  affairs  of  the 
ship,  was  no  sooner  suggested  to  his  mind  than  he 
eagerly  seized  upon  it,  and  was  far  away  on  the  ocean 
before  he  became  conscious  of  his  rashness  and  folly. 

He  thought  of  Robert  Manning  —  of  his  honorable 
and  unblemished  name ;  of  Stanley  —  a  stranger, 
whose  character  was  entirely  unknown  to  him ;  and 
for  the  first  time,  he  now  perceived  the  wiles  by  which 
Mabel  Grey  had  lured  him,  and  he  thought  of  them 
with  bitterness  and  scorn  ;  while  in  his  contrition  and 
pity,  his  wife —  his  gentle,  patient,  loving  wife,  seemed 
dearer  to  him  than  in  all  his  life  before. 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  I  13 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  day  that  the  ship  sailed 
tor  Cadiz,  whence  she  was  bound,  from  Liverpool, 
that  Mr.  Hayne  encountered  on  the  wharf  a  poor, 
haggard  and  wretched  looking  being,  in  whom,  how 
ever,  he  immediately  recognized  Stanley. 

Stanley  had,  a  few  days  after  Mr.  Hayne  set  sail 
from  his  native  land,  been  dismissed  by  his  emplovers 
on  account  of  his  dishonesty ;  and  the  same  night, 
reckless  and  half  drunk,  had  shipped  as  a  common 
sailor,  on  board  a  vessel  bound  for  England.  Disease, 
dissipation  and  poverty  had  reduced  him  to  the  con 
dition  in  which  Mr.  Hayne  now  met  him. 

"  Stanley,"  said  he,  grasping  him  firmly  by  the 
shoulder,  "  tell  me  why  you  lied  about  my  wife." 

There  was  something  in  that  determined  grasp  and 
firm,  noble  look,  which  made  the  wretch  fear  more  to 
evade  than  truthfully  to  answer  the  question ;  and 
trembling,  he  told  in  what  manner  Mrs.  Hayne  had 
incurred  his  hate,  and  how  revenge  had  caused  him  to 
fabricate  the  tale  with  which  he  had  deceived  her 
husband. 

Not  once  while  Mr.  Hayne  listened,  did  he  relax 
that  firm  grasp,  or  open  his  lips,  save  once,  when  the 
name  of  Mabel  Grey  occurred,  unconsciously,  and 
with  a  bitter  sneer,  he  repeated  it  through  his  closed 
teeth.  But  when  Stanley  had  finished,  the  sense  of 
his  own  folly  was  stronger  upon  him  than  resentment 
at  the  man's  villany  ;  and  he  stopped  short  his  words, 
when  bowing  low,  he  began  to  beg  forgiveness  with, 
"  Stanley,  you  are  a  poor  sick  wretch,  and  I  am  not 


114  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

the  man  to  revenge  myself  on  you.  Come  with  me  to 
the  hospital,  and  you  shall  be  well  cared  for." 

He  procured  his  admission  into  one  of  the  best  hos 
pitals  in  the  city  of  Liverpool ;  accompanied  him  to 
his  ward,  and  turning  to  an  attendant,  while  he  pointed 
to  the  bed  on  which  poor  Stanley  now  lay,  said,  with 
an  earnestness  that  startled  the  young  man  :  "There 
is  a  villain ;  but,  if  you  do  not  treat  him  like  a  Chris 
tian,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you ;  and  take  that  for 
your  pains ; "  and  he  threw  down  a  twenty  pound 
note. 

A  few  hours  later,  and  Mr.  Hayne  was  sailing  down 
the  river  Mersey. 

CHAPTER  v. 

Why  do  you  look  so  pale  ? 

I  have  seen  a  ghost,  father,  Clive  answered The  ghost  of  my 

youth,  father,  the  ghost  of  my  happiness,  and  the  best  days  of  my 
life,  groaned  out  the  young  man.  I  saw  Ethel  to-day. 

—  Thackeray's  "ATeivcomes. ' ' 

"  The  trees  of  the  forest  shall  blossom  again. 
The  song-bird  shall  warble  its  soul-thrilling  strain, 
But  the  heart  Fate  hath  wasted  no  spring  can  restore, 
.And  its  song  shall  be  joyful  —  no  more,  never  more." 

It  was  a  happy  moment  for  Richard  Manning,  when 
he  welcomed  to  the  shores  of  Spain  the  chosen  friend 
of  his  youth.  The  warm  clasp  of  the  hand,  and  the 
familiar  tones  of  the  voice,  came  back  to  him  as  the 
echo  of  his  boyhood. 

And  it  was  no  less  a  comfort  to  Walter  Hayne,  with 
his  soul  longing  for  sympathy,  to  meet  a  friend  with 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  115 

whom  he  could  freely  converse  of  the  unhappy  cir 
cumstances  that  had  caused  him  to  leave  his  home. 
But  when  he  spoke  of  Mabel  Grey,  dwelling  with 
bitterness  on  the  thought  that  she  was  the  secret  spring 
of  all  that  misery,  Manning  was  silent;  while,  whis 
pering  low,  he  thanked  God  that  he  had  been  saved 
from  taking  to  his  heart  the  frail,  light  thing. 

Ten  years  had  greatly  changed  young  Manning.  A 
boy  no  longer,  he  stood  erect  in  the  full  glory  of  his 
manhood;  while  over  the  firm  lip,  the  smooth  calm 
forehead,  and  the  soft  earnest  eye,  was  thrown  that 
mystic  spell  of  intellect,  which  imparts  a  strange  charm 
even  to  features  the  most  rugged  and  irregular. 

In  the  conflict  of  life  he  had  met  the  full  tide  of 
battle,  and  had  come  off  conqueror.  Forgetting  him 
self — struggling  to  do  good  to  others,  to  create  around 
him  an  atmosphere  of  happiness,  unconsciously  he  had 
breathed  the  air  into  his  own  soul.  A  wanderer  in 
many  lands,  hearts  had  blessed  him  everywhere. 

And  wealth— the  wealth  that  the  world  loves,  had 
poured  in  upon  him  like  rolling  seas.  Every  enter 
prise  in  which  he  had  engaged  had  been  freighted 
with  success. 

He  had  long  thought  of  returning  to  his  native  land? 
and  had  placed  his  affairs  in  a  position  to  leave  Spain 
though  he  still  lingered,  as  if  loath  to  quit  that  beauti 
ful  land.  But  the  sight  of  his  friend,  and  the  idea  of 
having  his  company  in  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic 
decided  him  to  take  passage  in  the  ship  now  bound 
for  Boston. 


Il6  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

No  sooner  had  they  landed,  than  Mr.  Hayne,  eager 
to  reach  home,  took  passage  for  Portsmouth,  in  a 
schooner,  which  was  about  leaving  the  wharf.  Man 
ning  remained  in  Boston,  to  enjoy,  for  a  few  days,  the 
society  of  his  sister,  who  had  long  resided  there  with 
her  husband — a  man  capable  of  appreciating  her 
high-toned  and  beautiful  character. 

It  was  the  first  evening  of  his  arrival  that  he  met 
Mabel  Grey.  She  was  among  the  guests  in  a  small 
party  that  had  been  invited  at  his  sister's  before  she 
knew  of  his  arrival.  She  was  beautiful  as  ever,  and 
no  sooner  did  she  recognize  in  Manning,  the  bov  that 
she  had  held  captive,  than  she  again  brought  into  play 
all  her  powers  of  fascination. 

Once  the  perfection  of  his  ideal,  the  embodiment  of 
that  mystic  dream  which  can  steal  over  the  soul  but 
once,  he  gazed  upon  her  with  a  sad  and  mournful 
interest.  But  she  had  blighted  his  youth  ;  she  had 
darkened  the  hearth-stone  of  his  friend  ;  and  her  every 
blandishment,  her  every  softened  tone,  fell  on  his 
heart  coldly  as  moonbeams  on  flowers. 

A  week  passed  away,  and  Manning  was  returning 
to  his  early  home.  The  coach  road,  now  passed  close 
to  the  dwelling  of  Hayne,  and  he  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  of  running  in  for  a  moment,  even  before  he 
reached  his  old  home,  to  congratulate  both  Hayne  and 
his  wife  on  their  restored  happiness. 

"Where  is  Walter?  my  husband?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Hayne,  the  moment  Manning  presented  himself.  She 
had  not  before  heard  of  the  ship's  arrival  in  Boston, 
and  when  she  learned  that  a  week  had  passed  since 


A    STORY    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  I  17 

her  husband  sailed  from  there,  she  knew  that  some 
other  terrible  calamity  had  befallen  her. 

There  had  been  a  severe  storm  upon  the  coast ;  and 
they  had  heard  of  a  schooner  having  been  wrecked,  and 
several  bodies  washed  ashore,  at  the  "  Isle  of  Shoals." 

With  sad  forebodings,  Manning,  with  several  others, 
proceeded  to  the  island.  The  bodies  had  been  buried 
for  several  days.  They  were  disinterred,  and  Man 
ning  at  once  recognized  in  one  of  them  the  features  of 
his  poor  friend. 

It  was  no  ordinary  grief  that  overwhelmed  the 
stricken  widow.  Letters,  indeed,  she  had  received 
from  her  husband,  teeming  with  love ;  but  the  long 
ings  to  hear  once  more  from  his  lips  the  accents  of 
affection,  were  lost  in  the  wailings  of  despair. 

The  care  of  everything  now  devolved  upon  Man 
ning.  It  was  for  him  to  be  the  friend  of  the  widow, 
and  the  guardian  of  her  boys.  For  years  he  watched 
over  her  interests  with  unchanging  kindness.  There 
was  in  their  intercourse  that  confiding  freedom,  which, 
perhaps,  could  not  have  been,  had  either  ever  thought 
of  regarding  the  other  as  anything  more  than  a  devoted 
friend. 

But  five  years  from  Mr.  Hayne's  death,  the  friends 
were  married  —  a  strange,  mysterious  marriage,  in 
deed  —  scarcely  love ;  but  a  friendship  so  deep,  so 
confiding,  so  sublimated,  that  it  was  near  akin  to 
that  holiest  passion.  And  gradually  even  the  image 
of  Mabel  Grey  faded  from  the  husband's  soul,  and 
the  ideal  of  his  early  youth  became  merged  in  the  form 
of  his  wife. 


THE   REQUITED 


CHAPTER    I. 

The  solitude  of  childhood  is  not  so  much  the  mother  of  thought 
as  it  is  the  feeder  of  love,  and  silence,  and  admiration. 

— Charles  Lamb. 

r  I  CHOUGH  but  a  few  miles  from  town,  the  mansion  of 
Colonel  Willey  was  a  retired  and  lonely  dwelling; 
beautiful  indeed  in  summer,  surrounded  as  it  was  by 
magnificent  shade  ti'ees  and  broad  gardens,  where  every 
natural  irregularity  of  the  ground  being  allowed  to 
remain,  gave  it  a  peculiar  appearance  of  wildness  and 
beauty.  On  a  low  hill,  or  rather  broad  mound,  was 
a  small  grove  of  beech  trees,  just  as  they  had  sprung 
spontaneously  from  the  soil,  while  around  the  hill, 
there  wound  a  wide  gravelled  walk  from  which  little 
foot-paths  in  the  grass  led,  some  toward  the  house, 
and  others  to  arbors  whose  age  and  brownness  were 
concealed  by  the  grape-vines  and  honeysuckles  which 
hung  over  them,  and  which  made  a  welcome  shelter 
from  the  summer  sun. 

A  mile  away  was  the  ocean ;  and  though  in  storm 
the  sound  of  its  wild  roar  and  dash  of  the  surf  upon 
the  rocks,  or  the  peculiar  "rote,"  which  comes  when 
the  storm  is  over,  like  the  sobbings  of  a  hushed  child, 
might  give  more  loneliness  to  the  place,  boating  excur- 
118 


THE    REQUITED. 


119 


si  cms  when  the  weather  was  fine,  and  the  sea  smooth, 
made  it  a  still  more  attractive  residence. 

But  in  winter,  it  looked  dreary  here  and  desolate  as 
such  lone  dwellings  cannot  fail  to  do.  A  band  of 
joyous  children  —  of  bright,  glad  boys  and  girls  —  had 
long  ago  made  those  broad  gables  and  wide  halls  echo 
with  their  gushing  laughter  and  bounding  tread ;  and 
now  they  had  all  gone  forth  from  this  home ;  the 
daughters  as  brides ;  the  sons,  to  places  where  they 
might  find  scope  for  genius  and  enterprise. 

One  child  alone  remained  —  Marion,  the  youngest  — 
tjie  lamb  of  the  flock*  Some  said  it  was  because  she 
was  the  youngest  that  she  seemed  so  among  them  the 
dearest  of  all.  She  was  the  sunbeam  of  the  old  house  ; 
and  the  children  from  afar  came  home  longing  even 
more  to  look  upon  her  golden  hair  than  the  silvered 
locks  of  their  parents. 

Younger  than  the  rest  by  seven  long  years  —  their 
pet  and  their  darling,  she  had,  as  to  companionship, 
as  to  the  flow  of  mutual  thought  and  feeling,  been  as 
an  only  child.  And  thus,  partly  from  circumstances, 
partly  from  natural  constitution,  she  had  been  a  soli 
tary  and  dreamy  child  —  sitting  alone  among  the  dead 
leaves  that  lay  beneath  the  beech  trees  on  the  hill ; 
creeping  into  the  shelter  of  overhanging  rocks;  or 
watching  the  waves  and  sea-birds  on  the  shore. 

Wandering  so  aimlessly  —  dreamingly,  was  she  in 
haling  from  those  dead  leaves,  breathing  from  the  salt 
air  that  came  from  the  sea,  finding  among  the  moss 
and  sea-shells  that  essence  which  helps  to  make  the 
immortal  mind? 


120  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

Those  hours  were  indeed,  though  she  could  not 
comprehend  it,  and  those  who  loved  her  and  watched 
her  with  a  curious  smile  might  not  know  it,  those 
hours  were  educating  her  character,  sounding  depths 
in  her  soul,  giving  a  power  and  intensity  to  her  emo 
tions  which  only  such  dreamy  solitude  has  power  to 
nurture.  Yet  for  this  she  was  a  happy  child  —  happy 
as  the  birds  in  the  wood;  glad  as  the  foam  that  danced 
upon  the  waves. 

Marion  was  nineteen  now ;  a  woman,  beautiful  in 
deed,  but  not  strikingly,  brilliantly  beautiful;  not  a 
queen  that  one  half  fears  to  approach.  A  sense  of 
beauty  was  not  the  first  impression  which  one  receive'd 
in  looking  upon  her;  it  was  a  feeling  of  confidence 
and  affection.  The  light  from  her  soft  brown  eyes, 
the  golden  hair  parted  across  her  white  forehead,  and 
the  mingled  expression  of  strength  and  gentleness 
which  layabout  her  beautiful  mouth,  formed  a  counte 
nance  to  excite  love  rather  than  to  arouse  ambition  or 
admiration. 

Her  soul  was  free  —  free  as  the  eagle  that  soars  high 
in  the  blue  sky.  The  past  was  a  joyous  memory. 
The  future,  far  away,  seemed  as  beautiful  as  the  sun 
set  clouds  which  she  had  watched  so  earnestly,  and 
whose  flaming  glory,  when  she  was  a  child,  she  had 
believed  she  could  touch  with  her  hands,  if  she  might 
only  climb  the  hill  above  which  they  floated. 

O,  the  joy  of  free  girlhood  !  The  happiness  of  the 
child  is  too  evanescent ;  that  of  the  woman,  often 
serious  in  its  intensity  of  joy.  But  the  girl's  —  it  is 
light  and  sparkling  as  the  foam  that  plays  on  the  top 


THE    REQUITED.  121 

of  the  sea  wave ;  glad  as  the  lark  that  sings  in  the 
morning ;  bright  as  the  sunbeams  that  fall  among 
flowers. 

And  yet  hers  was  a  sleeping  soul ;  and  those 
draughts  of  Lethe  which  she  had  inhaled  when  alone 
on  the  sea-shore,  which  she  had  breathed  when  wan 
dering  among  the  scented  pines ;  would  make  for  her 
a  more  startling  awakening.  Aye  !  The  waking  of  a 
long  sleeping  soul  and  of  a  matured  intellect;  intense, 
overwhelming  in  its  joy,  or  terrible  in  its  thrilling 
anguish  ! 

Yes,  she  was  a  woman ;  with  a  still  joyous  soul ; 
with  a  world  of  passion  and  of  love  lying  all  quiet  and 
unappropriated  down  in  the  depths  of  her  heart — 
so  still  and  quiet  that  she  dreamed  not  that  they  were 
lying  there. 

CHAPTER   II. 

Strange  that  Destiny  should  often  come  creeping  like  a  child  to 
our  very  doors;  we  hardly  notice  it,  or  send  it  away  with  a  laugh ; 
it  comes  so  naturally,  so  simply,  so  accidentally  as  it  were,  that 
we  recognize  it  not.  We  cannot  believe  that  the  baby  intruder  is 
in  reality  the  king  of  our  fortunes,  the  ruler  of  our  lives.  But  so 
it  is  continually. — John  Halifax. 

It  was  a  February  day,  and  the  bright  sunbeams  fell 
upon  the  cold  white  snow  like  the  soft  halo  which 
envelops  the  forms  of  aged  saints  in  the  pictures  of 
the  old  masters. 

The  old  house  was  still.  The  stillness  of  winter  in 
the  country  !  The  city  dwellers  do  not  dream  of  it ; 
the  watching  of  every  snow  track ;  the  wondering  of 
who  is  every  passer-by  ;  all  that  community  of  interest 


122  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

in  little  things  which  springs  up  where  there  are  no 
great  general  subjects  as  reservoirs  for  the  mind's 
activity. 

Marion  had  been  in  the  city  considerably  \vith  her 
sisters,  but  she  was  not  contented  there.  Her  heart's 
home  was  the  country  —  the  old  house  among  the 
beech  trees.  Little  dreamed  she  that  on  that  still 
winter  day  she  was  to  meet  her  destiny  —  that  the  first 
leaves  of  the  future's  unread  volume  were  to  be  cut. 

It  was  afternoon  as  she  wratched  from  the  window 
the  approach  of  a  powerful  black  horse  and  marked 
with  interest  the  fearless  skill  of  the  rider.  The  fiery 
beast  seemed  to  act  —  to  be  used,  as  it  were,  as  an  ex 
ponent  of  some  ardent  and  exuberant  nature :  and  it 
was  with  a  feeling  of  pleasure  that  she  saw  the  horse 
man  dismount  at  their  door,  where,  with  the  eager 
hospitality  of  the  country,  he  was  met  by  her  father. 

Frederick  Merton  had,  within  a  few  days,  arrived 
from  his  southern  home  at  the  neighboring  city  in 
order  to  complete  there  a  course  of  study  in  the  legal 
profession.  He  had  called  upon  Colonel  Willey  at  the 
request  of  his  father  who  had  been  an  intimate  friend 
till  the  wide  separation  of  their  homes  had  made  them 
as  strangers.  It  was  with  much  pleasure  and  cordial 
freedom  that  the  old  man  welcomed  to  his  hearth  the 
son  of  his  early  friend,  and  introduced  to  him  his  wife 
and  Marion. 

As  they  entered  the  room  where  Marion  was  sitting, 
a  ray  of  sunlight  streaming  in  from  a  western  window 
fell  upon  her,  investing  with  singular  beauty  her 
golden  hair  and  white  forehead.  The  young  man  too 


THE    REQUITED.  123 

was  strikingly  handsome,  with  his  regular  features, 
the  dark,  deep  bloom  of  health  mantling  his  face, 
black  wavy  hair,  and  deep  blue  eyes  lighted  up  with 
the  hope,  happiness  and  animation  of  youth. 

They  met  each  other  with  conscious  pleasure  ;  with 
that  sentiment  of  prepossession,  that  n.agnetic  attrac 
tion  of  soul  which  we  can  never  explain  but  which 
we  know  does  more  than  anything  else  in  bringing 
about  a  friendship.  Even  that  ray  of  light  which  fell 
upon  the  young  girl's  hair,  shed  a  fascinating  influence 
upon  Merton's  ardent  imagination  and  crowned  her 
with  the  beauty  of  an  angel;  while  to  Marion,  he 
seemed  as  the  ideal  of  her  dreams.  Was  this  love? 
No:  love  —  true  love,  long  as  life,  strong  as  death, 
is  not  the  birth  of  an  hour.  Such  a  sensation  may 
prove  its  germ,  but  is  no  more  itself  than  the  acorn 
is  the  oak,  or  the  little  coral  the  island  which  it  forms. 
As  unlike  as  the  gourd  which  shaded  Jonah  to  the 
cedars  which  grew  on  Lebanon. 

From  that  day  Merton  was  a  constant  and  welcome 
visitor  at  Colonel  Willey's.  There  was  his  rest,  his 
place  of  happy  repose  ;  and  soon  Marion  learned  to  lis 
ten  watchfully  for  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs.  Now 
for  the  first  time,  she  really  had  a  companion  ;  one 
who  could  understand  her  character,  enter  into  her 
moods,  and  rightly  construe  even  her  silence. 

The  spring  days  came,  and  he  wandered  with  her 
to  the  beach  to  listen  to  the  rolling  of  the  surge ;  or  in 
childish  fashion,  hold  to  the  ear  those  peculiarly 
formed  shells  which  seem  so  well  to  remember  and 
mimic  the  roar  of  their  ocean  home.  He  walked  with 


124  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

her  to  the  grove  and  watched  the  sunlight  and  the 
floating  clouds ;  and  he  caught  the  spirit  of  her  soli 
tude  and  brought  into  words  all  those  thoughts  and 
feelings  which  had  been  coined  in  the  recesses  of  her 
spirit.  Thus  months  passed  on,  and  Marion  Willey 
loved.  Her  soul  awakened  from  its  sleep.  She  loved 
with  all  the  intensity  of  a  silent,  earnest  nature ;  and 
she  loved  too  before  she  was  bidden. 

And  is  it  true  that  in  a  woman's  heart  the  spell 
must  only  be  awakened  by  the  power  of  a  word,  and 
that  till  that  word  is  uttered,  there  must  be  no  con 
sciousness  of  love,  and  if  never  spoken,  the  whole 
world  of  a  past  must  be  to  thought  and  memory  as 
though  it  had  never  been  ? 

Frederick  Merton  knew  that  he  himself  was  happy 
and  that  to  Marion's  life  he  was  a  joy.  Beyond  that 
he  looked  not,  he  thought  not ;  or,  if  the  thought 
sometimes  forced  itself  upon  him,  he  pushed  it  away 
impatiently. 

CHAPTER  III. 

Parting  is  death,  at  least  as  far  as  life  is  concerned.  A  passion 
comes  to  an  end ;  it  is  carried  off  in  a  coffin,  or,  weeping  in  a  post- 
chaise,  it  drops  out  of  life  one  way  or  other,  and  the  earth-clods 
close  over  it  and  we  see  it  no  more.  But  it  has  been  part  of  our 
souls,  and  it  is  eternal. —  Thackeray. 

Nearly  two  years  passed  on  in  that  mystic  maze  of 
happiness  which  youth  and  love  alone  may  know ; 
and  they  parted.  A  strange  parting.  They  whose 
souls  had  mingled  as  "kindred  drops  of  rain,"  who 
had  seemed  as  twin  spirits,  parted  almost  as  strangers 
might  have  parted  ;  and  they  met  no  more. 


THE    REQUITED.  125 

Merton  removed  to  a  distant  part  of  the  same  State 
and  in  less  than  a  year  married  a  proud  and  beautiful 
heiress.  It  was  not  perhaps  wealth,  considered  as 
wealth,  that  so  enticed  him.  Heaps  of  gold,  piles  of 
stock  certificates,  might  have  been  of  no  value  beside 
the  fair,  sweet  girl,  whom  he  perhaps  loved  as  well  as 
his  nature  was  capable  of.  But  that  which  gold  had 
brought  —  the  noble  mansion  and  splendid  appoint 
ments,  the  rich  jewelry  and  costly  fabrics  with  which 
beauty  was  adorned,  enchanted  and  bewildered  him  ; 
and  that  bewilderment  he  imagined  to  be  another 
sentiment  and  called  by  another  name. 

Aye,  it  is  not  always  the  flippant,  the  shallow- 
brained  and  the  foppish  who  are  most  taken  with 
fashion,  dress  and  beauty ;  but  men  with  broad  fore 
heads  and  oftentimes  deep  hearts  —  men  conscious  of 
their  vanity,  and  knowing  not  that  they  themselves  are 
affected  by  them. 

And  day  by  day  Marion  wilted  "  like  fern  in  the 
frost."  Her  step  grew  feebler,  and  her  brow  paler, 

till  they  made  her  a  grave  below  her  wrecked  hopes. 

******** 

It  was  a  strange  coincidence  that  brought  Frederick 
Merton  to  the  house  of  Colonel  Willey  on  the  very 
day  of  Marion's  funeral.  The  coffin  was  placed  in  the 
room,  the  old  familiar  parlor,  where  he  had  first  seen 
her ;  and  as  he  entered  the  room,  the  sunlight  came  in 
through  the  same  western  window  and  fell  upon  the 
fair  head  pillowed  in  the  coffin,  just  as  three  years 
before  he  had  seen  it  fall  in  her  young,  joyous  beauty. 

Merton  was  not   a   bad  man ;    nor   would  he  have 


126  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

wantonly  harmed  one  lock  of  her  golden  hair.  But 
such  men  as  he,  there  are  and  ever  will  be,  so  long  as 
there  are  souls  to  suffer  and  hearts  to  break.  In 
words  he  had  never  betrayed  her ;  he  had  only  broken 
her  trust ;  and  standing  beside  her  coffin,  he  tried  to 
consider  himself  an  innocent  man.  He  did  almost 
consider  himself  so  ;  and  had  the  story  of  that  wronged 
girl  been  told  to  him,  he  would  have  listened  indignant 
as  David  did  when,  in  a  parable,  the  prophet  Nathan 
set  before  him  his  own  sin  ;  and  would  have  been  as 
tonished  as  David  was  to  have  heard  it  said,  "  Thou 
art  the  man." 

QHAPTER  IV. 

" '  God  is  great,'  say  the  Mohammedans;  God  is  just,  also,  as 
every  page  of  the  history  of  mankind  would  teach  us  if  we  could  or 
would  read  it  aright.'' 

In  the  beautiful  mansion  which  he  had  inherited 
from  his  deceased  wife,  Merton  dwelt  with  his  only 
daughter  and  her  husband,  Charles  Harding,  who 
had  been  his  favorite  student  and  whom  he  had  re 
ceived  as  partner  at  the  completion  of  his  studies. 

In  the  circle  of  Mrs.  Harding's  acquaintance,  her 
most  intimate  friend  was  Catherine  Grey,  a  young 
widow  of  much  personal  beauty  and  of  singular  pow 
ers  of  pleasing.  At  their  home  she  was  a  frequent  and 
welcome  guest.  But  Mr.  Merton  had  never  liked  her, 
although  he  did  justice  to  her  beauty,  sprightliness 
and  intelligence.  There  was  a  light  in  her  eye  which 
he  had  never  fancied ;  and  to  his  deep  seeing  judg 
ment,  she  was  gradually  obtaining  a  preponderance  of 


THE    REQUITED.  127 

power  over  the  minds  of  his  daughter  and  her  husband 
which  he  felt  to  be  especially  dangerous  to  the  latter. 

Terribly  startled  as  he  was,  he  was  scarcely  sur 
prised,  when  late  one  evening,  pale  as  death,  his 
daughter  entered  his  room  and  gave  him  an  unsealed 
note  from  Mrs.  Grey  to  her  husband,  which  had  been 
placed  in  her  own  hands  through  the  innocent  careless 
ness  of  the  child  that  had  brought  it.  It  contained  the 
closing  particulars  of  a  concerted  arrangement  for 
their  leaving  town  the  next  evening,  never  to  return. 

It  was  perhaps  well  for  Mr.  Merton  that  the  neces 
sity  for  immediately  deciding  on  what  course  of  action 
to  pursue,  afforded  him  no  time  to  yield  to  the  agony 
of  his  feelings. 

Mrs.  Harding  was  his  only  child,  and  in  her  all  his 
earthly  hopes  were  centred.  Harding  too  had  been 
his  favorite  student,  his  beloved  friend,  and  the  son 
whom  his  own  proud  heart  had  chosen.  Nor  did  he 
now  think  him  to  be  a  bad  man.  He  believed  that 
the  strange,  winning  beauty  of  Catherine  Grey  had 
made  him  forget  himself ;  and  in  striving  to  stretch 
out  an  arm  to  save,  he  felt  as  he  might  have  felt  were 
he  snatching  a  child  from  the  charmings  of  a  serpent, 
and  knew  as  well  that  the  rescued  one  would  after 
ward  bless  him  for  it. 

Scheme  after  scheme  for  removing  Harding  from 
the  poisonous  atmosphere  which  he  breathed,  pre 
sented  itself  to  Mr.  Merton' s  mind  and  was  abandoned, 
till  he  remembered  that  a  few  months  before,  while 
journeying  together  through  a  town  about  sixty  miles 
distant,  Harding  had  expressed  great  admiration  for 


128  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

the  house  and  grounds  belonging  to  an  estate  which 
was  for  sale,  and  the  disposal  of  which  was  in  his  own 
hands.  He  had  even  said  that  had  he  the  means,  he 
would  purchase  it  for  his  own  residence. 

Desirable  as  the  property  was,  the  large  price  re 
quired  for  it  had  hitherto  prevented  it  from  being 
sold :  and  the  moment  Mr.  Merton  thought  of  Hard- 
ing's  remark,  he  fastened  upon  its  purchase  as  the 
surest  and  best  plan  for  bringing  about  the  immediate 
separation  he  desired. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  entered  the  parlor  to  await 
the  appearance  of  Harding ;  but  he  was  already  there. 
With  his  back  to  the  door,  leaning  his  arm  upon  the 
mantel-piece,  and  gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  fire,  he 
did  not  notice  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Merton  till  he  laid 
his  hand  heavily  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Chai'les  Hard 
ing,"  said  he,  with  a  face  of  ashy  paleness,  but  with  a 
voice  clear  and  firm  as  when  in  the  vigor  of  his  days 
he  pleaded  at  the  bar,  "  Charles  Harding,  three 
months  since  I  heard  you  say  that  you  so  much  ad 
mired  the  Horton  estate  that  nothing  but  the  large 
sum  demanded  for  it,  prevented  you  from  purchasing 
it.  The  purchase,  Charles,  I  will  make  for  you,  pre 
sent  to  you  as  a  free  gift,  and  only  ask  that  for  vour 
honor's  sake,  your  children's  sake,  and  if  it  may  have 
any  influence  with  you,  for  your  wife's  sake,  you  will 
take  immediate  possession.  The  business  here  I  will 
arrange  satisfactorily." 

Harding  looked  up.  He  started  almost  in  terror. 
Had  his  friend  grown  old  so  suddenly?  That  ashy 
paleness  and  the  thrilling  earnestness  of  those  words, 


THE    REQUITED.  129 

roused  him  from  the  enchanting  spell ;  and  he  remem 
bered  his  own  honor,  and  the  claims  of  those  who 
loved  him. 

The  evening  which  had  been  fixed  upon  for  his 
elopement  with  Catherine  Grey  found  Harding  leaving 
in  the  company  of  his  wife  for  the  new  and  beautiful 
home  which  the  careful  affection  of  Mr.  Merton  had 
provided  for  him. 

CHAPTER  v. 

Methought,  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounc'd 
The  name  of  Prosper.  — Shakespeare. 

It  was  night,  and  Merton  was  alone  in  his  deserted 
mansion.  Boxes  of  such  goods  as  were  to  be  removed 
lay  piled  about ;  a  few  embers  were  burning  dully  on 
the  hearth  ;  and  he  was  sleeping  upon  the  sofa.  Sud 
denly  he  was  awakened  by  the  howling  of  the  wind  as 
it  swept  through  the  trees  and  rolled  over  the  chim 
neys.  His  first  consciousness  was  that  of  deep  depres 
sion,  but  without  recollection  of  the  cause  which  had 
produced  it. 

Collecting  his  thoughts,  he  lay  and  looked  into  the 
dying  embers.  As  he  looked,  they  moved  back  into 
a  far  off  distance,  till,  through  a  vista,  miles  and  miles 
away,  he  saw  there  the  ocean  tossing  its  white  foam ; 
and  walking  on  the  shore,  one  in  whose  features  he 
recognized  himself — not  himself  as  he  now  was,  with 
sorrow  at  his  heart  and  frost  upon  his  hair ;  but  him- 


I3O  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

self  in  the  glory  of  his  young  manhood.  And  by  his 
side,  and  listening  with  him  to  the  dashing  of  the 
surge  upon  the  shore,  was  a  fair  girl,  and  she  he  saw 
was  Marion.  He  watched  the  two  breathlessly ;  till 
the  sea,  the  shore,  and  the  faces  familiar  to  memory, 
changed  like  the  figures  seen  in  a  kaleidoscope  ;  and  a 
grave  appeared  with  a  moss-grown  stone  on  which  he 
could  read  no  name,  till  a  sudden  gleam  of  sunlight — 
the  very  ray  it  seemed  that  he  had  twice  seen  crown 
her  golden  head — fell  upon  the  stone,  and  he  read, 
*'  Marion." 

He  could  look  no  longer.  He  shut  his  eyes,  and 
memories  came  faster,  stronger  than  the  surges  on  the 
shore. 

A  person  whose  mind  had  been  differently  consti 
tuted,  one  of  less  strength  and  intelligence,  might  have 
referred  all  that  had  passed  before  him  to  a  super 
natural  visitation ;  might  have  believed  that  he  had 
seen  a  vision.  But  Merton,  whose  business  in  life 
had  made  him  an  adept  in  tearing  away  specious 
appearances  and  looking  upon  facts  alone,  knew,  as 
he  lay  there  in  that  still  agony,  with  every  faculty  of 
his  mind  clear  and  awake,  that  the  scenes  upon  which 
he  had  gazed  were  created  by  the  concentrated  power 
of  a  remorseful  conscience  and  a  present  anguish. 
And  "  the  burial  places  of  memory  gave  up  their 
dead  ;"  and  such  thoughts  as  had  never  been  his  before 
came  to  him.  No  longer  was  he  an  actor  in  the 
scenes  of  his  youth,  but  an  unswayed  judge.  He 
thought  of  her  whose  life  but  for  him  might  have  been 


THE    REQUITED.  13! 

bright  and  beautiful,  and  of  the  hearth-stone  whose 
light  he  had  darkened ;  and  with  his  own  sorrow  at 
his  heart  for  his  only  child,  now  struggling  with  her 
pride  and  grief,  he  bowed  low  his  own  head  in  sym 
pathy  with  the  aged  parent,  whose  locks  so  long  ago 
he  had  whitened. 

And  then,  though  he  knew  it  was  but  the  wail  of 
the  storm  through  the  trees,  there  seemed  to  come  to 
his  ear,  clear  as  the  voice  of  Samuel  to  Saul,  "The 
iniquities  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  upon  the  chil 
dren —  I  will  repay  saith  the  Lord." 


They  are  all  gone  now.  Even  she  who  told  us  the 
story  of  Marion  Willey,  whose  purity  and  beauty  she 
quaintly  compared  to  the  spotless  ermine  ;  she  whose 
aged  cheek  flushed  so  with  an  indignation  which  for 
seventy  years  she  had  kept  in  her  heart,  when  she 
told  of  Merton  appearing  at  the  funeral  with  crape 
upon  his  hat ;  (a  fact  which  we  have  not  incorporated 
into  this  story,  because  it  seemed  so  unnatural)  she  too 
has  gone  to  her  last  rest. 

Frederick  Merton  died  full  of  years,  and  men  whom 
their  country  honored  bore  his  coffin  pall ;  and  above 
his  grave  a  shaft  of  pure  marble  recorded  his  virtues 
and  his  high  standing ;  and  there  was  nothing  to  tell 
of  the  fair  girl,  whom  his  heedless  selfishness  had  lain 
beneath  the  gray  sunken  stone  in  the  village  church 
yard  far  away. 


132  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

Once,  when  an  old  woman,  we  saw  Catherine  Grey. 
Even  then,  she  was  beautiful ;  but  her  expression  was 
sad,  gentle  and  subdued,  for  she  was  a  penitent,  and 
had  been  reconciled  to  and  forgiven  even  by  the  woman 
she  had  wronged. 


AUNT   RACHEL. 


Give  me  no  steady  centre  to  these  mighty  mutations — no  stable 
throne  amid  these  rocking  kingdoms  and  shaking  orbs ;  no  clear 
and  controlling  mind  to  this  wild  chaos  of  ideas  and  passions;  no 
great  and  glorious  result  to  all  this  mysterious  and  awful  prepara 
tion,  and  Reason  herself  would  become  as  wild  and  confused  and 
aimless  as  they. — J.  S.  Headlty. 

I  think  there  is  some  reason  for  questioning  whether  the  body 
and  mind  are  not  so  proportioned,  that  the  one  can  bear  all  which 
can  be  inflicted  on  the  other;  whether  virtue  cannot  stand  its 
ground  as  long  as  life  ;  and  whether  a  soul  well  principled  will  not 
be  sooner  separated  than  subdued. — Dr.  Johnson. 

\  ~\  7"E  remember  as  it  were  yesterday  the  first  time  we 
saw  her,  though  it  was  a  brief  glance,  and  she 
was  so  quickly  forgotten  that  most  of  us  had  passed 
into  the  supper-room  and  the  rest  had  reached  the 
door,  heedless  of  the  stranger,  when  one  of  our  party, 
perhaps  more  thoughtful  than  the  others,  cast  her  eyes 
on  the  quiet  little  figure  that  stood  near  the  fire  as  if 
irresolute  whether  to  follow  or  remain.  With  lady 
like  politeness  she  received  the  excuses  which  one  of 
the  gentlemen  offered  for  having  preceded  her,  and 
entered  the  room. 

She  was  very  slight,  and  thin,  and  pale,  her  eyes 
were  of  a  light  gray  and  her  hair  inclined  to  redness, 
but  her  forehead  was  broad  and  smooth  and  about  her 

133 


134  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

thin  lips  there  hovered  an  expression  of  sweetness  and 
repose. 

We  have  forgotten  now  what  first  led  us  to  feel  that 
beneath  that  unprepossessing  exterior  were  concealed 
the  pulses  of  a  warm,  generous  heart  and  the  powers 
of  a  strong  and  cultivated  mind,  but  we  remember 
well  the  morning  that  she  set  her  seal  upon  our  heart. 

It  was  a  clear,  cold,  brilliant  morning  in  March. 
The  whole  broad  country  was  covered  with  a  thick 
crust  of  hard,  glittering  snow  and  every  tree  was  en 
cased  in  ice.  The  oaks  and  elms  and  chestnuts  and 
beeches  from  their  trunks  upward  and  outward  to  their 
minutest  twigs,  and  the  pines  and  firs  with  their 
greenness  shining  through,  sparkled  like  diamonds  and 
emeralds  in  the  brightness  of  the  sun. 

O,  it  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  we  have  seldom 
since  been  so  young  in  feeling,  as  never  we  are  sure  in 
years,  as  when  we  walked  forth  into  its  bracing  air. 

And  Aunt  Rachel — she  enjoyed  it ;  the  broad,  icy 
fields,  the  difficult  ascent  of  the  steep,  slippery  hills 
and  the  "duckies"  down  them,  and  the  crackling  of 
the  icicles  as  we  thrust  our  way  through  the  bristling 
underbrush  of  those  diamond-crested  woods.  We 
loved  even  to  eat  the  icicles  that  hung  from  the  pines 
with  their  pungent  flavor,  strong  as  though  their 
pointed  leaves  had  been  steeped  in  boiling  water.  It 
was  a  pleasure  to  taste  as  well  as  see  the  trees. 

As  we  entered  the  "  Main  Road  "  and  were  passing 
along  by  the  "  Asylum  for  the  Insane,"  a  clear,  pleas 
ant  voice  from  one  of  the  cells  in  the  upper  story 
accosted  us:  "Good  morning,  ladies."  We  looked 


AUNT    RACHEL.  135 

up  and  bowed  in  reply  to  the  salutation.  "It  is  a 
beautiful  morning,"  he  continued,  "and  I  should  like 
myself  to  take  a  walk  down  on  '  Main  Street,'  but  my 
folks  have  sent  me  here  to  be  shut  up  because  they  say 
I  am  crazy,  but  I  am  sure  I  am  not  crazy,  and  I  can't 
see  why  they  should  think  so."  And  we  thought  the 
same  as  we  listened  to  the  calm,  pleasant  tones  of  his 
voice,  till  he  added,  "  It  will  soon  make  me  beside 
myself  to  be  with  this  wild,  screaming  set ;  and  it 
doesn't  do  them  any  good  either  to  shut  them  up  here. 
What  they  want  is  the  Grace  of  God,  and  I'll  put  the 
Grace  of  God  into  them." 

His  voice  grew  wild  and  excited,  but  we  knew  that 
a  whole  volume  of  truth  had  been  uttered  in  those 
simple  words;  "What  they  want  is  the  Grace  of 
God." 

The  Grace  of  God  !  How  many  has  it  saved  — 
rescued  —  from  madness ;  how  have  prayer  and 
watchfulness  been  blest  in  conquering  self,  in  subduing 
rampant  passion  and  the  wild,  disorderly  vagaries  of 
the  brain. 

As  we  listen  to  the  low  whispered  prayer  of  a  Hall 
when  he  felt  the  billows  of  angry  passion  about  to 
sweep  over  his  soul — "  O,  Lamb  of  God,  calm  my 
perturbed  spirit,"  —  we  feel  that  but  for  such  interced 
ing  prayer  and  that  watchfulness  which  accompanied 
it,  the  insanity  to  which  he  was  temporarily  subject 
would  have  won  the  same  mastery  over  the  mighty 
powers  of  his  mind  as  over  those  of  Swift,  and  the 
glory  of  his  "wide  fame"  as  well  as  the  peace  of  his 
"  humble  hope,"  would  have  been  exchanged  for  the 


136  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

vagaries  of  the  mad  man  or  the  drivellings  of  the 
idiot. 

The  Grace  of  God  !  We  thought  of  John  Randolph, 
with  his  sway  over  the  minds  of  others,  with  a  "wit 
and  eloquence  that  recalled  the  splendors  of  ancient 
oratory,"  yet  with  so  little  command  over  himself  that 
his  weak  frame  sometimes  sank  beneath  the  excite 
ment  of  his  temper,  and  gusts  of  passion  were  suc 
ceeded  by  fainting  fits  ;  and  when  the  one  desire  of  his 
heart  was  denied,  when  a  love,  mighty  as  every  other 
passion  of  his  soul  failed  him,  his  grief,  ungovernable 
and  frenzied  as  his  rage,  overwhelmed  him,  and  the 
"taint  of  madness  which  ran  in  his  line,"  flooded  his 
brain.  But  when  the  atheist  became  a  Christian ; 
when,  in  his  own  words,  he  felt  "  the  Spirit  of  God 
was  not  the  chimera  of  heated  brains,  nor  a  device  of 
artful  men  to  frighten  and  cajole  the  credulous,  but  an 
•  existence  to  be  felt  and  understood  as  the  whisperings 
of  one's  own  heart ;"  his  prayer  of  "  Lord  !  I  believe, 
help  thou  mine  unbelief,"  was  answered  in  calm  and 
peace  to  his  soul. 

"  The  saddest  thought,"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  as  we 
turned  away  from  that  gloomy  edifice,  "•  the  saddest 
thought  connected  with  that  building  is,  that  so  large 
a  number  of  its  unhappy  inmates  have  brought  their 
misery  upon  themselves,  are  the  victims  of  their  own 
irregular  and  indulged  passions." 

As  we  turned  and  looked  upon  her  smooth  brow, 
her  serious  and  serene  eyes  and  her  sweet,  calm  mouth, 
we  marked  a  look  of  subdued  suffering  mingled  with 
an  expression  of  Christian  triumph ;  and  we  knew 


AUNT    RACHEL.  137 

that  she  had  felt  "the  ploughings  of  grief;"  that  she 
had  learned  "how  sublime  a  thing  it  is  to  suffer  and 
grow  strong;"  but,  though  we  wondered  deeply,  we 
never  knew  in  what  form  she  had  been  called  "  to  pass 
under  the  rod,"  but  we  heard  a  voice  that  said : 

"  Fear  not:  when  thou  passest  through  the  waters, 
I  will  be  with  thee  ;  and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall 
not  overflow  thee." 

Nay,  fear  not,  weak  and  fainting  soul, 
Though  the  wild  waters  round  thee  roll, 
He  will  sustain  thy  falt'ring  way, 
Will  be  thy  sure,  unfailing  stay. 

And  though  it  were  the  fabled  stream 
Whose  waves  were  fire  of  fearful  gleam, 
He  still  would  bear  thee  safely  through 
The  fire,  but  cleanse  thy  soul  anew. 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST  GIFT. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Her  hour  came — the  hour  that  comes  only  once  :  her  star  rose 
in  the  horizon — that  star  that  rises  so  often  in  vain,  to  be  remem 
bered  as  a  thing  of  dreams  ;  and  it  rose  for  her  in  vain. 

— H.  B.  Stowe. 

TT  was  an  assemblage  where  a  few  aged  guests  were 
looking  backward,  through  the  long,  dim  lapse  of 
years,  to  their  own  youth,  and  love,  and  bridal  — 
something  so  like  a  dream  that  they  could  not  feel  it 
had  ever  been  a  reality.  And  there  were  those  in 
middle  life,  feeling  much  younger  than  the  young  felt 
them  to  be.  And  there  were  youth  — young  men  and 
maidens  —  quaffing  the  bright-red  wine  cup  of  joyous 
hope,  fresh  love  and  wild  passion.  And  there  were 
the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  just  risen  to  receive  the 
marriage  rite. 

The  bridegroom  was  a  frail,  slight  man,  in  whose 
deep,  calm  eyes  the  fires  of  intellect  seemed  quietly 
burning,  as  in  a  resting  volcano,  rather  than  flashing 
in  the  over  excitement  of  an  untamed  genius  ;  and  the 
calm,  cold  and  intellectually  beautiful  face  was  pale 
and  attenuated. 

And  the  bride  was  very  lovely  with  her  wavy  brown 
hair,  and  bright  sunny  eyes,  and  lips  just  ready  for  a 
138 


THE    FIRST    AND    LAST    GIFT. 

smile,  and  from  whose  cheek,  study  or  midnight  vigil> 
had  never  stolen  its  roundness. 

When  all  was  stilled  for  the  solemn  rite,  another 
figure  lightly  entered,  gliding  like  a  spirit  till  she 
stood  near  the  clergyman. 

She  was  a  lady  of  elegant  form,  and  whose  face 
must  have  been  exquisitely  beautiful,  had  health  and 
happiness  but  given  it  one  glow.  Her  cheek  and  brow 
were  white  as  Parian  mai'ble,  and  round  her  finely 
moulded  head  her  black,  glossy  hair  was  wound  in 
wavy,  graceful  folds ;  her  eyes  were  large,  and  sa 
darkly  blue,  that  at  a  first  glance  they  seemed  most 
like  the  liquid  black  common  to  the  daughters  of  Italy. 
But  her  chief  beauty  lay  in  her  mouth  and  chin  —  red- 
lipped  and  dimpled  beauty  still  rested  there. 

She  was  attired  in  a  closely-fitting  black  silk  dress, 
and  over  her  shoulders  was  gracefully  thrown  a  velvet 
mantle  of  the  same  color.  Her  black  attire  was  entire 
ly  unrelieved,  save  by  a  small  pearl  pin,  placed  in  the 
neck  of  her  dress,  and  a  diamond  of  great  beauty  on 
one  hand,  and  on  the  other  a  white  kid  glove. 

She  stood  near,  like  a  statue  —  her  ungloved  hand 
laid  across  her  bosom,  and  the  diamond  on  her  finger 
glittering  there  like  a  star. 

Even  the  bridgroom  turned  his  eye  upon  the  figure. 
He  met  her  calm,  bright,  unchanging  eye.  He  saw 
the  diamond.  Its  brightness  seemed  to  flash  and  dim 
his  eye,  while  memory  came  back  to  him,  and  brought 
the  moonlit  evening,  years  before,  when  he  had 
placed  that  same  diamond  on  the  hand  of  the  bright, 
joyous  girl,  whose  sad,  unearthly  beauty  now  made 


14°  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

her  seem  to  him  like  a  spirit  from  the  grave,  and  said  — 
"  This  is  for  my  bride."  His  pale  face  flushed  like 
wine,  and  then  more  than  its  wonted  paleness  came, 
and  big  drops  of  perspiration  oozed  from  his  fore- 
•head  ;  but  not  a  feature  changed. 

The  ceremony  proceeded.  Those  large  eyes  turned 
not  for  a  moment  from  the  bridal  pair,  till  at  the  close, 
when  the  prayer  was  offered,  her  eyelids  closed,  her 
long  black  lashes  fringing  them  like  a  pall ;  and  with 
palm  to  palm  of  white  hand  and  glove,  she  seemed  as 
if  praying  with  strange  fervor. 

She  noted  for  a  few  moments  the  greetings  that  were 
showered  on  the  bride  ;  then  softly  moving  toward  her, 
drew  the  diamond  from  her  own  finger,  and  placing 
it  on  that  of  the  bride,  turned  to  the  bridegroom,  and 
in  tones  low  and  clear  murmured,  "  This  is  for  your 
bride." 

CHAPTER     II. 

— It  may  be  a  sound — 

A  tone  of  music — summer's  eve — or  spring — 
A  flower — the  wind — the  ocean — which  shall  wound, 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound. 

— Byron. 

Hubert  Lansing  was  a  lonely  widower,  and  with 
health  and  fortune  ruined.  He  sat  alone  in  his  room, 
conscious  that  the  sands  of  life  were  ebbing  fast  away. 
The  past  and  the  present  alike  oppressed  his  soul.  His 
children  —  his  daughters  —  to  leave  them  friendless 
and  penniless;  and  the  image  of  Maria  Wilder  —  his 
early  love,  his  discarded  bride  —  vividly  was  she  pict- 


THE    FIRST    AND    LAST    GIFT,  141 

ured  to  his  mind  as  he  last  saw  her  on  the  evening  of 
his  marriage,  and  the  tones  of  her  voice  seemed  again 
to  fall  upon  his  ear  as  she  parted  with  his  sacred  gift. 

Of  all  whom  he  had  counselled  and  served,  of  all  on 
whom  he  had  showered  benefits,  his  heart  turned  to 
her  as  the  only  one  to  whose  truth  and  benevolence  he 
could,  with  unwavering  confidence,  intrust  his  chil 
dren  ;  but  could  a  mind  delicately  strung  ask  her  to 
take  them  to  her  home  and  heart. 

Thus  wrapped  in  agonized  thought  his  daughters 
entered.  The  younger  was  especially  his  child  —  the 
inheritor  of  his  intellect ;  and  she  bore,  too,  the  name 
of  Maria.  The  mother,  had  chosen  the  name  in  mem 
ory  of  a  sister,  but  each  time  the  father  murmured  it, 
it  had  been  fraught  with  another  memory.  This  child, 
too,  was  the  object  of  his  greatest  anxiety.  There 
was  in  her  a  depth  of  feeling,  an  intensity  of  emotion, 
a  capability  of  suffering  which  he  well  knew  required 
the  guidance  and  sympathy  of  a  strong  and  affectionate 
spirit,  and  to  whom  could  he  commit  so  holy  a  trust  ? 

He  stretched  his  hand  toward  the  child,  and  said, 
"Maria."  The  word  fell  upon  his  own  heart  with 
strange  power.  There  came  back  to  him  all  the  faith 
and  unreserve  tinged  with  a  glow  of  his  early  love, 
and  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart  he  wrote  her : 

"Maria,  I  am  a  stricken  man  —  the  Lord  has  laid 
his  hand  upon  me.  My  wealth  is  scattered,  and  that 
energy  of  character,  that  strength  of  intellect  which 
first  won  for  me  your  undying  love,  has  waned  and  is 
fast  waning  with  my  life.  Yes,  I  know  that  I  am 


142  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

dying,  that  the  decree  is  irrevocable,  nor  can  I,  like 
the  ancient  prophet,  pray  that  it  may  be  prolonged. 

"  For  seventeen  years,  Maria  Wilder,  your  name  has 
never  passed  my  lips,  nor  has  my  pen  traced  one  word 
to  you ;  but  now  the  '  waters  of  the  great  deep  '  are 
breaking  up.  I  will  not  attempt  to  palliate  the  past, 
but  with  my  dying  lips  I  affirm  that  it  was  not  the 
prospect  of  the  great  wealth  which  I  received  with 
my  bride  that  caused  me  to  break  my  faith  with  you, 
though  I  know  that  I  was  dazzled  with  the  luxurious- 
ness,  the  gems  of  art,  and  the  brilliant  gayety  by  which 
she  was  surrounded,  and  the  high  position  which  her 
father  occupied  in  a  nation's  trust. 

"  Yes,  Maria,  forgetful  of  you,  I  pledged  myself  to 
her ;  and  you  were  almost  lost  to  me  in  the  whirl  of 
excitement  which  followed,  till,  like  a  spirit  from  an 
other  world,  you  appeared  before  me  on  the  evening 
of  my  marriage. 

"  Then  I  became  myself  again.  It  roused  me  to 
consciousness,  as  the  force  of  a  sudden  calamity  will 
sometimes  bring  to  instant  reason  those  made  mad 
with  alcohol. 

"  The  enchanter's  wand  was  taken  away.  What 
was  luxury,  or  the  works  of  art,  but  that  which  sor 
did  gold  might  purchase  ?  And  legislative  fame,  was 
it  not  as  often  won  by  cunning  and  low  cabal,  as  by 
intellectual  worth  or  moral  power  ?  And  my  bride  — 
deep  pity  filled  my  heart  for  her,  and  she  became  dear 
to  me  as  a  sister. 

"I  was  glad  when  I  heard  of  your  marriage.   I  knew 


THE    FIRST    AND    LAST    GIFT.  143 

that  love  could  never  more  bloom  in  your  heart  —  that 
the  fire  had  gone  over  your  soul  and  left  it  too 
*  scorched  and  seared  for  the  flower  of  a  second  love 
ever  to  find  resting-place '  there ;  but  I  thought  the 
path  would  be  very  lonely,  and  might  be  long,  and 
that  it  were  better  thus  than  to  walk  the  valley  all 
alone.  Thoroughly  I  understand  your  nature,  and 
knew  well  that  your  tents  were  not  easily  struck,  or 
readily  pitched  -elsewhere  —  that  your  love  was  such 
as  planted  a  '  terribly  fixed  foot.' 

"  Think  not  that  in  this  I  had  a  secret  satisfaction; 
for  glad  would  I  have  been  to  have  known  that  you 
had  hated  me,  could  it  have  given  back  to  you  the 
joyous  love  which  I  had  blighted,  and  enabled  you  to 
have  placed  it  as  a  fresh  gift  upon  another  altar. 

"And  now  years  have  gone  over  us,  and  to  you 
alone  can  I  commit  my  dying  trust. 

"  Maria,  when  I  am  dead,  will  you  receive  from  me 
the  only  legacy  which  I  have  to  impart  —  my  children  ? 
My  last  gift  to  you  was  a  ring  of  betrothal  —  the  next 
are  children  who  called  another  mother.  Tell  me  that 
your  home  shall  be  theirs,  and  that  your  heart  will 
receive  them  ;  and  I  die  in  peace. 

"HUBERT  LANSING." 


144  GATHERED    WAIFS. 


CHAPTER    III. 

Either  the  human  being  must  suffer  and  struggle  as  the  price  of 
a  more  searching  vision,  or  his  gaze  must  be  shallow,  and  without 
intellectual  revelation. — De  Quincey. 

Though  the  bloom  of  life  has  been  nipt  with  a  frost,  yet  the 
soul  must  not  sit  shivering  in  its  cell,  but  bestir  itself  manfully, 
and  kindle  a  genial  warmth  from  its  own  exercise,  against  the 
autumnal  and  wintry  atmosphere. — Hawthorne. 

Qui  n'auroit  pas  souffert,  n'auroit  jamais-senti  ni  pense. 

— Corinne. 

True  as  it  is  that  there  are  great  sorrows  that  over 
whelm  the  heart  —  sorrows  from  whose  stunning 
power  the  soul  is  never  wakened ;  that  many  there 
are  who  live  with  u  heads  above  water  and  with  hearts 
beneath,"  walking  the  earth  with  firm  step  and  un 
ruffled  brow,  yet  bearing  a  heart  that  looks  for  no  rest, 
hopes  for  no  joy  on  the  shores  of  time ;  so  true  is  it, 
that  for  such  consolations  of  a  peculiar  character  are 
prepared.  To  such  is  given  a  power,  strength,  and 
depth  of  character,  and  even  an  intense  capability  of 
happiness  of  which  they  have  never  conceived  who 
have  not  known  the  force  of  a  great  sorrow.  It  is  an 
alchemy  which  creates  a  new  attribute,  or  rather 
changes  and  refines  every  other  principle.  To  them 
a  new  book  is  opened ;  to  them  a  strong  angel  is  sent 
and  lifteth  a  seal ;  to  them  faith  becomes  a  word  of 
mighty  meaning ;  not  something  far  off,  but  near ;  it 
is  Jesus  walking  upon  the  waves  of  the  heart,  and 
saying:  "Peace,  be  still;"  and  fulfilling  in  the  soul 
His  promise  "  I  am  with  you  alway,  even  unto  the 
end  of  the  world." 


THE    FIRST    AND    LAST    GIFT.  145 

Such  had  been  the  influence  of  sorrow  upon  Mrs. 
Carlton  —  the  once  light  and  joyous  Maria  Wilder. 

From  a  dream  which  had  made  existence  beautiful, 
and  robed  earth  in  the  drapery  of  heaven,  she  was 
suddenly  awakened  to  a  life  which  she  knew  must 
forever  be  to  her  a  failure  and  an  abortion. 

And  then  evil  spirits  came  to  tempt  her.  Despair, 
with  its  madness ;  misanthropy,  with  its  bitterness ; 
and  gayety,  with  its  heartlessness.  But  they  won  not 
the  victory.  Strength  from  heaven  came ;  hope,  born 
from  above,  beamed  in  her  soul ;  our  common  hu 
manity  she  loved  again ;  and  she  gathered  the  little 
wild-flowers  of  peace  that  grow  in  many  lowly,  hidden 
spots,  and  are  found  but  by  those  who  seek  them. 

She  waited  not  for  opportunities  to  perform  great 
deeds  of  self-denial  or  of  generosity,  for  she  knew  that 
those  who  would  make  others  happy,  who  would 
have  a  "  dailv  beauty  in  their  lives"  must,  like  Naa- 
man,  learn  to  bathe  in  other  streams  than  those  of 
Damascus ;  and  her  ever  ready  kindness  and  genial 
smile  sent  sunshine  into  many  hearts. 

It  were  at  least  doubtful,  whether  such  a  marriage 
as  hers  with  James  Carlton  were  wise  and  well.  But 
if  that  deep  confidence  which  never  veiled  a  thought 
or  feeling —  if  that  sympathy  of  taste  and  affectionate 
regard  which  made  the  society  of  each  grateful  to  the 
other  were  enough  for  such  a  union,  it  was  theirs; 
and  when,  after  many  years,  in  which  they  had  grown 
very  dear  to  each  other,  death  entered  their  dwelling 
and  bore  hence  the  generous  and  noble-minded  hus 
band,  Mrs.  Carlton  mourned  for  him,  not,  it  is  true, 


146  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

with  the  wild  and  untamed  agony  with  which  she 
would  have  mourned  the  chosen  of  her  youth,  but 
with  a  deep,  earnest  and  quiet  sorrow. 

Unhesitatingly,  and  rejoicing  that  even  for  him  she 
would  not  have  lived  in  vain,  she  answered  the  letter 
of  Hubert  Lansing. 

"Hubert, —  With  a  gladness  akin  to  that  with 
which  I  received  your  first  gift,  do  I  accept  from  you 
your  last  legacy  ;  and  the  love  —  the  passion  —  the 
agony  which  in  my  youth  I  gave  to  you  shall  be  dis 
tilled  into  an  intense  affection  which  shall  ever  fall, 
faithful  as  evening  dew,  upon  your  children. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  what  consolation  God  has  given 
me  in  my  own  children.  It  has  been  through  them 
that  He  hath  '  tempered  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,' 
and  remembered  His  promise,  'the  bruised  reed  I  will 
not  break.' 

"With  gushing  joy  —  with  more  than  a  mother's 
wonted  tenderness,  have  I  gazed  upon  my  eldest,  my 
noble  son,  my  Walter,  with  his  glorious  intellect 
written  on  his  brow,  and  his  loving  heart  traced  upon 
his  lip.  I  have  felt  that  had  he  called  you — the 
beloved  of  my  youth  —  had  he  called  you  father,  my 
love  for  him  could  not  have  been  greater. 

"  And  now  a  new  source  of  consolation  you  offer 
me  in  the  gift  of  your  children.  I  had  not  believed  that 
in  the  arrangements  of  Providence  it  would  ever  be 
given  me  to  do  you  another  kindness,  though  I  knew 
that  to  you  or  to  yours  as  freely,  as  frankly,  as  when 
you  knew  me  in  youth  and  in  happiness  would  I  min 
ister  to  your  pleasure. 


THE    FIRST    AND    LAST    GIFT.  147 

"  I  cannot  come  to  your  side.  The  effort  would  be 
too  painful  both  for  you  and  me.  Receive  my  boy  as 
my  own  representative ;  trust  to  his  care  your  children 
till  my  own  arms  shall  embrace  them. 

"  And  now,  Hubert,  beloved,  farewell ;  and  rejoice 
with  me  that  Heaven  and  Love  are  immortal  —  that 
the  star  whose  brightness  the  vapors  of  earth  have  not 
dimmed,  will  only  set  in  death  to  rise  in  heaven. 

k'  MARIA." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Death  is  a  black  camel  that  kneels  at  every  man's  door. 

—  Turkish  Proverb. 

Death  had  done  its  work.  Hubert  Lansing  had 
yielded  to  that  "tremendous  necessity"  that  awaits 
all  living. 

The  young  Walter  Carlton  had,  with  his  daughters, 
stood  at  his  bedside,  and  mingled  with  theirs  his  tears 
of  affection  and  sympathy ;  and  so  much  was  he  the 
representative  of  his  mother's  youth,  that  in  the  dim, 
shadowy  fancies  of  the  dying  man,  he  was  the  Maria 
of  his  youth,  and  with  glazing  eyes  fixed  upon  him, 
among  the  last  words  his  failing  lips  had  uttered  had 
been  her  cherished  name. 

The  home  of  Mrs.  Carlton  became  the  happy  home 
of  the  daughters  of  Lansing,  and  with  her  children 
they  mingled  as  sisters,  and  became  dear  to  one 
another  as  those  of  the  same  hearth-stone,  while  her 
own  heart  owned  no  difference  in  the  love  she  bore 
her  own  and  the  children  of  her  adoption. 


I  SHALL  BE/ 


"  Before  the  memory  has  a  tomb  in  it  —  before  it  becomes  the 
cemetery,  the  '  Greenwood '  of  the  soul  —  '  I  shall  be '  is  beautiful 
as  an  old  ballad.  When  graves  are  digged  therein,  and  willows 
are  planted,  and  hopes  are  buried,  and  no  light  breaks  out  of  the 
cloud,  then  '  I  shall  be  '  is  as  grand  as  an  old  paean.  When 

'  The  battle  is  done,  the  harp  unstrung, 

Its  music  trembling,  dying,' 
then  '  I  shall  be '  is  as  sublime  as  an  old  prophecy." 

A  CHILD  stood  alone  on  the  bank  of  a  little  river. 
^*  She  was  hardly  beautiful,  but  as  she  stood  with  her 
bonnet  hanging  on  her  arm,  the  wind  blowing  back 
the  dark  hair  from  her  broad,  open  forehead,  the 
bright  hue  of  health  lighting  up  her  dark  complexion, 
and  her  large  gray  eyes,  full  of  thought  and  intelli 
gence,  watching  the  rippling  of  the  stream,  none 
could  have  failed  to  call  that  face  singularly  interesting. 

Thus  thoughtful  she  stood  for  several  minutes,  till 
gradually,  as  though  wind  or  tide  were  infusing  her 
with  some  unseen  influence,  a  smile  full  of  hope  and 
joy  played  about  the  mouth  and  circled  the  large  eyes, 
when,  with  a  spring  of  joy,  she  flung  her  arms  above 
her  head  and  stood  still  nearer  to  the  stream. 

Suddenly  a  few  lilies,  stretching  their  long  stems 
and  floating  close  to  the  margin  of  the  water  caught 
her  eye.  In  a  moment  she  held  them  in  her  hand  and 
148 


"  I    SHALL    BE."  149 

riveted  on  them  a  look  intense  as  that  she  had  cast  a 
moment  before  upon  the  waves;  but  the  look  of 
intense  joy  still  lighted  up  her  face  —  and  then  she 
pressed  them  to  her  lips,  earnestly  —  lovingly,  as 
though  they  had  been  something  with  life  and  con 
sciousness  ;  then  looked  again,  and  seeing  that  her 
light  touch  had  dimmed  and  bruised  the  delicate 
leaves,  glanced  at  them  half  sorrowfully  for  a  moment, 
kissed  them  again,  and  flinging  them  into  the  water, 
said,  clear  as  though  a  living  thing  were  listening, 
"take  them  water,  I'll  not  hurt  their  pretty  leaves." 

Two  or  three  light  springs,  and  she  stood  on  a  rock 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 

Wooded  hills  rose  on  either  side  and  every  shade  of 
green  which  eai'ly  June  presents  was  painted  from  the 
low  shrubbery  on  the  river's  edge  up  to  the  tallest  tree 
on  topmost  hill  —  and  O,  above  the  sky  was  glori 
ously  beautiful. 

And  the  child  stood  in  the  midst.  She  looked 
around,  drank  in  the  glorious  beauty,  till  —  her  heart 
swelling  with  its  tumultous  joy,  with  its  intense  sense 
of  beauty  —  she  burst  into  tears:  smiles  could  not 
express  it,  nor  clasped  hands;  tears  alone  might  utter 
it. 

And  then  came  thoughts,  hopes,  aspirations  and 
high  resolves.  She  would  be  a  scholar :  she  would 
read  all  books  of  all  times ;  such  as  she  had  heard  her 
father  read  and  talk  of,  which  now  indeed  seemed  dim 
and  uncertain,  but  somehow  very  beautiful,  and  which 
she  [loved  much  to  hear,  though  scarcely  knowing 
why ;  but  as  she  grew  older,  she  felt  it  would  all  un- 


I5O  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

fold  —  Aye  !  She  would  be  a  scholar  ;  and  she  would 
try  to  be  good,  like  children  she  had  heard  of  —  good 
and  true  and  generous  and  meek  and  loving,  as  she 
had  heard  her  mother  often  pray  to  God  that  she 
might  be,  and  as  she  had  sometimes  tried  to  pray  for 
herself—--  O,  she  was  so  happy. 

The  little  foot  was  put  forward  for  another  spring ; 
she  was  almost  there,  but  a  strong  grasp  held  her 
back  ;  she  turned  ;  it  was  Rover,  their  faithful  New 
foundland.  She  looked  fondly  on  the  noble  animal. 
She  saw  that  he  feared  for  her  and  knew  that  that 
grasp  bade  her  take  care. 

She  reached  the  opposite  shore ;  and  wearied, 
though  she  knew  it  not,  more  from  strong  emotion 
than  from  bodily  fatigue,  she  threw  herself  upon  the 
ground,  resting  her  head  confidingly  on  the  shaggy 
breast  of  the  dog. 

She  clasped  her  little  hands  and  began  in  her  soft 
happiness  to  repeat, 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  " 

"No,  no,  I  mustn't  say  l  sleep,'"  she  murmured, 
"  I'm  not  going  to  sleep  now ;  *  Now  I  lay  me  down,  I 
pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep ;' "  and  her  eyes  were 
closed,  not  indeed  to  sleep,  but  to  rest  from  very  hap 
piness.  God  keep  thee  child — strong  in  thine  inno 
cence —  careful  in  thy  truth —  humble  in  thy  trust. 
******** 

She  stood  again  beside  that  stream  —  a  woman  — 
such  a  woman  as  the  high  aspirations  and  the  meek 
trust  of  her  childhood  had  promised. 

It  was  no  simple  wish,  no  feeble  effort  of  the  will 


"  I    SHALL    BE.  151 

that  had  made  her  an  accomplished,  intellectual  and 
noble  souled  being.  Often  and  often  when  drawing 
deep  from  the  wells  of  abstruse  science,  that  in  which 
she  might  find  no  immediate  delight,  but  which  she 
knew  was  disciplining  and  strengthening  her  powers, 
teaching  her  to  think,  to  coin  intellectual  wealth  from 
the  depths  of  her  own  soul ;  had  she  heard  a  syren 
voice  bidding  her  come  away  and  be  satisfied  in 
gathering  the  bright  and  shiny  moss  which  blooms  so 
bright  and  beautiful  around  the  wells  of  learning,  re 
quiring  no  labor,  and  where  pleasure  comes  at  once. 
But  she  had  not  heeded  that  voice ;  and  diligent,  ear 
nest,  patient  study  had  done  more  for  her  even  than 
native  genius. 

Nor  had  there  been,  nor  was  there  now  indeed,  no 
temptation  to  her  moral  nature.  Many  and  mighty 
had  been  her  struggles,  and  alas,  sometimes  had  she 
failed ;  for  what  mortal  life  has  been  one  of  unsullied 
purity  ?  She  had  felt  the  double  power  of  wrong 
doing  in  dimming  the  soul,  and  in  discouraging  from 
further  effort. 

It  is  not  indeed  wrong-doing,  itself  considered,  that 
does  the  worst  for  the  human  soul ;  it  is  its  degenerat 
ing  influence ;  its  tendency  to  crush  all  effort  to  do 
right  more,  as  though  the  beauty  of  life  were  forever 
marred  and  its  brightness  might  never  more  be  re 
stored.  Remorse  does  not,  cannot  do  the  work  of 
repentance ;  the  one  debasing,  the  other  elevating  the 
soul ;  and  though  the  failure,  the  sin,  be  ever  so  great, 
we  may  remember  the  guilty  woman  whom  men 


152  GATHERED    WAIFS. 

would  have  condemned,  but  to  whom  the  Saviour 
said  not,  thou  art  lost,  but,  "  Go,  and  sin  no  more." 

And  now  she  was  not  alone ;  another  stood  at  her 
side,  one  fit  to  match  with  her  own  nobleness  —  a 
twin  spirit  —  a  kindred  soul. 

And  a  new  sense  had  been  developed  in  her ;  love  had 
been  born,  the  love  of  which  childhood  is  not  con 
scious,  and  it  had  enveloped  life  with  a  new  charm. 

It  was  such  a  love  as  few  souls  experience,  long  as 
life,  strong  as  death,  sacred  as  holiness,  and  it  made 
to  her  the  future  more  ravi shingly  beautiful  than  had 

even  been  the  "  I  shall  be  "  of  her  childhood. 

******** 

Again  she  stood  by  a  river,  but  this  was  the  river  of 
death,  and  its  cold  waves  swept  from  her  sight  her 
only  son.  Then  there  was  a  struggle  fierce  and  terri 
ble  ;  for  in  place  of  the  bright  picture  of  a  son  bearing 
to  other  generations  the  name  dearest  to  her  on  earth, 
and  living  over  again,  as  it  were,  in  him  her  own 
happy  existence,  appeared  a  dark  and  chaotic  future ; 
it  was  "  beauty  for  ashes  and  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourn 
ing."  But  faith  triumphed,  and  she  heard  a  voice 
saying,  "  Thy  dead  shall  rise  again." 

******** 

And  other  years  passed  over  her,  and  a  voice  came 
to  her  also,  "  Go  ye  out  to  meet  the  bridegroom." 

O,  she  was  now  in  the  full  glory  of  her  womanhood, 
and  her  earthly  bridegroom,  her  chosen  love,  he  had 
satisfied  the  whole  desire  of  her  heart,  and  why,  O 
why,  should  she  be  summoned  to  meet  another  !•  And 
her  children,  so  strong  and  beautiful ;  must  she  go 


"  I    SHALL    BE."  153 

hence  to  the-  land  of  darkness  and  meet  them  no  more ; 
must  "  the  places  that  now  know  her,  know  her  no 
more  forever ;"  must  perhaps  another  take  her  place 
at  the  hearth-stone.  But  hope  again  became  glorified 
by  faith  ;  and  that  Star  which  she  had  sometimes  seen 
but  dimly  in  the  broad  sunshine  of  life,  shone  fuller 
and  more  glorious  than  ever  before  in  this  night  of 
darkness,  till  she  gazed  on  it  joyously  as  the  shepherds 
of  Judea ;  and  dying,  faith  heard  her  say,  "  I  shall  be 
satisfied  when  I  awake  in  thy  likeness." 


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